


What If We Trusted Each Other?

by The_Serlocked_Heart



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Mystery, Romance, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28780344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Serlocked_Heart/pseuds/The_Serlocked_Heart
Summary: Irene Adler has been running her whole life and finally, she wants to put her troubled last behind her and start over again. But when she once again crosses paths with the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, it seems that the adventures aren't quite over yet. Sherlock, Irene and Watson must join forces to outwit and bring down their fiercest adversary, Professor Moriarty.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Mary Morstan/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Well, I have been working tirelessly to try to come up with a decent story for this beautiful couple that I adore with all my heart, one that I feel like won't be a repeat of my previous fanfiction that I just wrote, which I may end up editing anyways because I have something much better in mind for it.
> 
> Also, I am about to tell you something strange, while conducting some 'research' on the subject of Adlock, I found out that Irene was not - and I repeat NOT Sherlock's only main love interest, there was also girl named Alice Faulkner, who, according to the radio play written about her, apparently shares a lot of similarities with Irene. I know, shocking, right?
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes universe, as much as I wish I did. I also want to give credit in advance to MistroStrings and Lightnin Spark whose incredible fanfictions, Buried With Shadows and A Shot in the Dark gave me inspiration to write some of these chapters. I suggest you read them because they're amazing!
> 
> Reviews and Kudos will be appreciated. :)

Now, where to begin?

I am standing at the train terminal, getting ready for my departure; the train I am about to board stands a few feet behind me and people are already starting to rush to set foot in the carts. A little boy, about seven or eight, bounces up and down impatiently and his mother gently reprimands him, saying that if he does not settle down right this second, he will not be receiving any chocolates; that does the job quick and he stands up straight and when it's their turn, the two of them, along with his father and older sister, climb on board the train. 

Smiling briefly at them, I glance down at my ticket; I am to travel second class; if I don't want to be recognized, I want to be able to blend in with the crowd, but at the same time, I wish to be comfortable, therefore, second class is the better option. 

My mother was a school teacher, my father had been a poor clergyman before he found his true calling as a soldier; they had married against the wishes of her parents, who considered the match beneath her; and who cut her off without a shilling; I also learned that they that they had me out of wedlock, bringing shame upon the family, but despite the betrayal and no doubt the overwhelming amount of guilt they must have felt, they decided, before he was called overseas once again, to Christen me with the name Irene, after the Greek goddess of peace, or if I was to be a boy, Andrew, meaning "strong" or "brave." 

If they only knew how ironic my name would become. 

Should I have been born a boy, when I grew up I would have been a soldier to serve overseas with my father, but two months ahead of my birth, he died from a landmine explosion, leaving my poor mother a widow to care for a helpless newborn baby all on her lonesome without the support of her parents who cast her aside as if she were nothing at all. I've always felt sort of guilty having to place such a terrible burden on her shoulders, but I never expressed that guilt to her. 

I did not know about this, of course, until I wandered around a room which we'd deemed my father's "study" and I came across a letter, a letter that I now wish I had not read; I'd learned to read from my mother and so it wasn't hard to figure things out. When she found out that I had discovered the truth, she did not bother to cover it up with lies, or tell me that it was made up; nor did she apologize for keeping the truth from me, since I reassured her that she did it for my own good; instead, we sat down together and she told me that I was the best mistake she ever made in her life. 

That made me laugh a little. 

It was just my mother and I against the world; she taught me everything she knew about history, mathematics, geography, music, science and important survival skills like Jiu Jitzu and first aid; thinking about the memories of home, of the snow falling over it, drinking hot chocolate by the fire and curling up in the little library surrounded by books or playing with my orange cat, Tabitha, brings a feeling of warmth to my chest, but also a feeling of great sadness and agony knowing that those days are dead and gone, same as she is. 

My grief did not last too long, for it was then that I decided to make a life for myself, make her proud, and prove to her that all of her hard work and sacrifices were worth it; The world was like an open book for me and I could write my own chapters; performing as a contralto at La Scala in Milan, Italy, and as prima donna in the Imperial Opera of Warsaw, Poland, where I had the honor of performing for His Royal Highness, Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, the Crown Prince of Bohemia, and together, we engaged in a tangled and rather short love affair.

And that, my friends, began the string of events which led me to making the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, so you've heard of him, have you? World famous detective, champion boxer and hero to all of mankind? Then I suppose there's no need to waste time with an introduction, is there? And perhaps you already know how the two of us met, also, am I right? If not, I feel like I am obliged to tell you, since I have a little time to spare before my train arrives in London, although since you probably have some place else to be, I won't keep up too much of your time. 

* * *

These romantic exchanges between the King and I continued and we shared many happy times together pistol shooting and riding in the Royal parks where I showed my spirit by matching his jump over an estate worker's cart, and to symbolize our relationship, there was a photograph, with him sitting regally on his throne, while I knelt, my arm draped over his shoulder, and the other holding his hand. My, did it look quite scandalous! 

The week immediately following the taking of the photograph, which I secretly kept a copy of, he eventually returned to his court in Prague, while I, then in my late twenties, retired from the opera stage and moved to London to have a quiet life of my own; and though the idea of marriage lingered, I knew that perhaps in time, we could come to that arrangement. It was as soon as I returned, that I learned through an article in the paper, that he was previously engaged to Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. In that instant, filled with pain, anger and regret, I held my chin up and decided to get my revenge.

The marriage would indeed be threatened if his prior relationship with me were to come to light, for instance, if I were to send the Scandinavian Royal Family the photograph, they would certainly not be pleased at all and the reputation of the man I thought I loved would be severely damaged. 

"I will send it on the day the betrothal is publicly proclaimed," I said to myself, positively beaming with the plot forming in my mind, but unfortunately for me, His Royal Highness knew of my devious plan and used every and any method to get it back; including five attempts to recover it by theft, having me waylaid, or in more modern terms detained, and my luggage stolen; twice, burglar's in the King's pay had ransacked my house, to no avail, I had hidden the precious item safely away where no one would ever think to find it; it was I who had the upper hand now.

Putting my plans on hold for the time being, there was another matter that was at hand, my own wedding was to take place today; In need of relaxation, I sat at my piano and to sing, something that always managed to calm me down, and waited for the hansom that was to take me to the church. I was soon to be married to an English lawyer named Godfrey Norton. Oh Godfrey, wonderful Godfrey. He served another purpose than just being my lawyer consultant. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have escaped the blue blooded buffoon. Despite being a barrister, he was easy to fool and manipulate, and within just two weeks of flirting and gentle persuasion, I became the future Mrs. Norton.

According to my soon-to-be husband, however, we could not be legally married unless we had a witness, however, that didn't mean that we couldn't be married anyway; at this point, I was beginning to think that all of my hard work would be for naught; nonetheless, I stepped outside, waiting for the hansom to arrive, and take me to the Church of Saint Monica on the Edgeware road where our ceremony would occur, but instead, found myself face-to-face with a red-headed man, watching me with a small, shy smile on his face and tilting my head to one side, I gave a little smile of my own before stepping hastily into my carriage which had just pulled up. 

On the way there, I couldn't help but think about how smoothly everything was going. It had been quite a while since the King sent anyone to inquire, and I put this lightly here, about the photograph, so it was safe for me to presume that he gave up on his little conquest and decided to put more focus into planning his own wedding. I hoped that for the bride's sake, that she was strong and not easily hurt by this scoundrel. 

Oddly enough, the same unknown man who I'd just seen moments ago, had showed up to the wedding and was sitting in one of the pews, hands folded in prayer as not to appear suspicious, however I happened to be regarding him with slight, if not the tiniest bit of interest; I was uncertain of the reasoning behind the visit this afternoon at Briony Lodge. Could my life, or my evidence be in danger once again? Was he sent here by the King? Or was he just a harmless visitor who happened to take an interest in my shrubbery and my voice? 

Godfrey followed my gaze and seizing the opportunity, called him up to the altar and then handed the stranger the wedding band, while regarding him with the tiniest, if not the slightest hint of suspicion, to which the stranger replied with an odd look of his own, maybe this was not part of his plans at all. I decided that I was only being paranoid and brushed the unnecessary thoughts aside. 

"Hold this, and do as you're told," he instructed and raised a finger in the air, "you'll be paid."

"Ah!" The minister sighed with immense relief as he entered the room, "we have our witness, the ceremony may proceed." As he began the speech with the usual opener, I allowed myself to wonder who this man was. Was he an old friend of mine whose age had finally caught up with him? He appeared to be much older than I, or maybe he just happened to stop by the church and this wasn't part of his plan at all. Either way, without a witness, our wedding could not be legal and therefore, it would have been invalid had he not chosen to be here, so I supposed I would need to thank him afterwards. 

"I allowed you to persuade me, now you must allow me to persuade you," I said, taking his clammy hand into mine and lowering my voice to a mere whisper, "I shall see you tomorrow." 

"At the very first moment," he replied, leaning in to exchange our second kiss as husband and wife before my carriage pulled out and went a short way down the path; though it was only a short distance before I remembered something and called for John, my driver, to stop the carriage and he did so promptly. I peeked at the window, signaling the gardener to come forth. 

"Sir," I began with a well-practiced smile, watching the gentleman remove his hat in greeting, "I want to thank you, for being so miraculously present when we needed you. How fortunate that you have remained close by." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small sovereign, a token of appreciation. "I hope you will accept this; let us call it a little souvenir." With a deep bow of his head, he backed away and allowed my carriage to take off again and I was relieved to be going back home. 

Serpentine Avenue was, indeed unusually busy for the time of night. A knife-sharpener plied his trade, servants gossiped, while a pair of soldiers gaily escorted their girls, groups of hooligans lounged about the place, it was around seven o'clock when I'd finished my nightly drive through London. I'd spent a long time amongst cobblestone, lamplit streets and could navigate through them without a map. My carriage came around the curve of the avenue, it was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge.

As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant I had stepped from her carriage, and was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks.

"Gentlemen, if we could all just-" someone began, but his voice was drowned out by the cries and shouts so he tried to physically break them apart, but it was no use; he dashed into the crowd to protect me but just as he reached me, ungallantly, one of the ruffians struck him a heavy blow with a stick and he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face.

"Stand back! Don't you see what you've done!" I cried, shoving myself between two of them and making my way over to my saviour. 

At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help me and to attend to the injured man. 

"He is dead," cried several voices at once, but a well-dressed gentleman stepped forward, placing a hand close to the injured man's nose and looked over to me saying, "He's still breathing." My driver apologized profusely, I turned to him and told him that all was alright, that there was nothing he could have done to prevent such a thing from occurring; I was awfully shocked myself, seeing as how nothing like this ever happened. 

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" I asked, feeling faint all of a sudden from all the hullabaloo.

"No, but he will need medical attention, therefore we must hurry." 

"He can't lie in the street; bring him into the house," I said and both men picked him up off the ground and carried him inside and I followed, there wasn't much time and I was afraid that if I did not act quickly, this man would die. Slowly and solemnly he was brought into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that there was plenty of light for me to see him as he lay upon the couch and I asked my maid, Willard, to fetch me a bowl of clean water and a fresh cloth and bandage, but that she needn't worry about tending to him, for I would do so when he was awake. 

A small cough alerted me that he was awake and I rushed to kneel by his side, "You're conscious, thank goodness." Just then, Willard came running in, I lightly took the supplies from her and with a polite nod, she excused herself from the room and I dipped the cloth into the bowl of water. 

"Sir, will you turn toward me so that I might have a look at that wound?" 

"It is no sight for a lady," he said, turning away. 

"I have very strong nerves," I assured him and it worked for he allowed me to first clean the small gash and then dress it with the bandage. "I'm so relieved that your wound isn't serious." 

"It's only shallow and the concussion wears off," he replied, closing his eyes momentarily. 

"It is extraordinary, that so many people should gather in such a quiet little turning," I mused, looking out the window and then laughing to myself. "All those men to snatch one little purse? No, it wouldn't have paid them." 

"My vocation takes me much amongst the poor, and even the criminal classes, look at those people staring; curiosity is so unseemly, but I fear universal," he paused and then leaned against the armchair, "I believe I am going to faint." 

"Willard, the window!" I instructed and she obeyed immediately. 

"Are there any smelling salts?" he asked and I shuffled about the room, looking around, but then something more pressing caught my attention, the man began to shout, "Fire!" The word was no sooner out of his mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids—joined in a general shrieking. 

Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. Immediately, I my eyes flickered towards a safe which contained a valuable photograph and out the window, I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of the man from the couch assuring them that it was a false alarm, he ran to the window and shouted it again.

"This was all a ruse, wasn't it? A trick? Who would play such a terrible trick on someone? One of the gang, surely, but for what purpose? Are there such wicked people in the world?" 

"Revenge," was the soft reply. "there are people in this world to which revenge is in itself, a reward." 

"I cannot imagine such feelings." 

"I know where it is." He said, proudly.

"And how did you find out?" I replied, knowing there was no point in playing coy with him. He was much too smart for that.

"You showed me, just as I knew you would."

"I am still in the dark."

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was perfectly , of course, must have known that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

"I guessed as much." I said as I started to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

"I'm just relieved to know that you weren't really hurt," I laughed a little, but he couldn't fail to detect the trembling in my voice.

"I'm sorry if I worried you, sweet thing, but it was all-important. You see, when a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it."

"Well played," I nodded. "I do believe that before we part, official introductions are in order. You know me, or so it seems, what about you? At least your name will do." 

"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes." 

"Then, Mister Holmes, now that you've unveiled my plans, it seems that I have no choice but to surrender," Backing away towards the door and grasping the knob, I heard someone coming up the stairs and the man, whom I now knew, stood there, not even bothering to stop me.

That next morning, I composed a letter to the great detective, leaving it on the coffee table before picking up my suitcase and going out the door where Godfrey was waiting for me, so that we may make the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the continent, never to return to England again. 

_Dearest Sherlock Holmes—You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know._

_Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed._

_Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband. We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes._

_Very Truly Yours, IRENE NORTON, nèe ADLER._

To this day, I am proud of myself, proud to be the only woman to have ever outsmarted the great Sherlock Holmes and honored to have earned the title of The Woman.

* * *

Now that you have a firm grasp of the tale, we shall continue to the present.

The whistle of the evening train signals that at long last, I have arrived at my destination after a short time in America; New Jersey was the same as it was when I first left, minus a few new pastry shops that have opened, and part the forest where I used to play with my friends has been cut down in order to make room for the ever-growing population; I will be honest with you for a moment; there is nothing particularly special about it whatsoever, it is a deeply ordinary place where nothing astonishing ever happens, and the people who live there are just regular people who don't question the order of things. Let's just say it is good to be back home in jolly ol' London, where things are not as predictable and boring. I’ve missed this place dearly, I’ve missed the food, the history, the atmosphere, the mystery and the people.

Especially the people.

Closing the book that I'd been reading on the ride here and putting it with the rest of my things, I slip on my black gloves and then place my hands on my lap. Glancing out of the frost-covered windows, the station appears to be packed with people, but I suppose I should have expected that; after all, I am certain lots of people will be wanting to spend the Christmas holidays with loved ones. I am here to see an old friend. 

Don't worry, I have no hidden motives, or tricks up my sleeve; All I want to do is say a quick hello, let him know that I'm alive and that I'm doing alright, and then if he doesn't want to speak to me, that's perfectly fine. Personally, I wouldn't blame him after all I did to him in the past, the wounds I inflicted on his heart. Despite what people may or may not believe, Sherlock Holmes does have a heart, he just chooses to keep it locked away in order to protect those closest to him. I cannot imagine that I'm one of those people, but there's always hope.

Even at this hour, the street is busy, throngs of pleasure-seekers down from Regents Park or up from the theatre. A Hansom pulls up, depositing a young gentleman who appears to have just returned from a country visit, a visit of several days in duration by the looks of it and the soaking he received waiting for a cab can hardly have helped his weariness any. No doubt he is looking forward to returning home to a nice warm supper prepared by his cook - no, wife! Observe the band around his ring finger. 

It's much to late to go anywhere right now, almost half-past four in the afternoon; Luckily, I can easily book a room at The Grand. I gather my belongings, thankful that I have only brought one suitcase so that I don't have to carry so many things. I am also glad that I chose to wear my winter coat and boots; the small dusting of snow that started to fall only moments ago, has become a light flurry; it's the most snow that London has ever gotten.

I can faintly see my reflection in the glass; Many bits of my chestnut locks seem to have fallen out of the bun under my snow hat and sit in messy curls around my face. Some long, some short. The makeup I had used to cover the lines under my eyes have now been wiped off somehow. My ruby red lips part slightly as I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. There is a large bruise on the left side of my head from when I fell off the bridge, and there are several on my back from the several times I've fallen. Without much time to dwell on that, I hear the conductor shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to fetch their luggage and get off the train.

Stepping off the platform, the cold winter's air sends goose-bumps across my skin as I stroll through the park. The leafless foliage sways in the wind. The footprints of others sprinkle the ground, darting this way and that as people had come and gone. This leaves the ground rather more icy than I would have like, especially with my recent injuries that have only begun the process of healing.

At one point in my life, I saw being alone as like being free of a weight; I could do as I pleased, and live how I chose. No one was around to tell me what I couldn't or shouldn't do; alone was what kept me safe; alone was what protected me, but now, I am tired of running, I hate the idea of being alone, which is why I am here.

The sky is covered in a thick layer of dull, gray stratus clouds; clinging to these like the people do to their warm mid-winter jackets. The air smells of sea salt, tobacco and the unmistakably sweet candy apple scent down by the gate of the park; the scents mingle in the air, rising high and swirling with the wisps of chimney smoke puffing out from the rows upon rows of icy rooftops. Children ice skate along the frozen River Thames; their laughter echoes on the breeze and their cheerful faces are illuminated by the warm lamps. It looks like something right out of a Christmas card.

When I see someone familiar approaching the haberdasher's, accompanied by a small, pudgy bulldog, I can feel a smile starting to settle on my face. Just looking at him makes me think about all the things I've done to him and immediately, I begin to frown. I have only noticed how less thin he's become compared to the last time I saw him. Mrs. Hudson must be taking good care of him. The scars and bruises on his face tell me about the battles he has fought and won.

"I see someone's enjoying the weather," I say, stepping over towards Sherlock as a biting breeze blows through the bare and crocked trees in the park. He's wrapped up John's plaid woolen scarf, the tasseled end hangs on the back of his coat. He pulls his black leather gloves from the cluttered pocket to his left, and slips them on without once letting go of the dog's leash. I find myself staring into his deep chestnut eyes, with slight rare streaks of gold around the pupil. From the looks of things, those eyes seem tired, but relieved. For a second he stares at me, probably wondering what to make of me, for I am pondering what to make of him.

"It is a fine—well it would've been a fine day if it wasn't for that nuisance of a creature Watson forced me to take for a walk." He nods down to the dog and the little guy tilts his head to one side as if trying to understand what we're talking about. He probably did, which is why he approaches me and rubs his little head against my leg. "Gladstone, come away from Irene now, old boy." He gently tugs the leash to make him come back to him and once he does, we follow the path to the park. "Still in London, dear?" he asks nonchalantly, and then decides to continue seeing as how I don't reply. "I thought you'd run off as soon as you got the chance… marry a man… steal his money and—" I stop him with a cold stare.

"Actually, I just arrived back in New Jersey." As we both sit down on a worn park bench, I place my gloved hands in my lap. "There is business here of which I must attend," I answer simply, folding my small hands which were covered in thin white gloves in my lap.

"I am presuming you escaped the clutches of Scotland Yard." he remarks sarcastically, pulling out his pipe and striking the bench arm of the bench to light it.

"By giving me the keys, you made it only too easy," I reply with a small grin tugging at the side of my lips and for a moment, his eyes flicker with a look I've never seen before and suddenly, he takes my wrist in his hand.

"Don't pretend like I don't know what's going on," he whispers, not necessarily angry, but something along those lines could easily describe the icy tone in his voice.

"Oh, but you don't. You have no idea what's going on, Mister Holmes, not if it was staring you right in the face," I say challengingly and wretch my wrist out of his hand without breaking eye contact. I shouldn't have expected anything more than what I've received, I bend down to stroke Gladstone's fur and then standing up from the bench and then forcing a grin, I bid them both goodbye and then go on my way.

Coming around the corner, I blow on my hands to warm them up a little, but it doesn't do much good. Maybe I will be warmer once I get back to the hotel. I am standing at the edge of the sidewalk, with the cold wind biting at my cheeks and making my eyes water, waving a gloved hand, the other firmly at my side holding my white tasseled scarf. My feet are weary and my whole body aches, but I keep pushing it to its limits. If I stop now, there's no telling what will happen.

After numerous carriages, carts, and horses pass by, a black carriage finally arrives, driven by two beautiful horses who I am tempted to pet, but I am tired and need to get to the one place I hope I will be safe; stopping near the edge of the pavement. The driver steps off of the seat in front, pulling a beaten-up bowler hat off his balding head. He dips slightly in a bow and plastering on a fake smile, I hand him the necessary money.

"The Grand please, sir."

"Certainly, miss!" He replies, opening the door and as soon as the door clicks shut behind me and I settle in my seat, I catch breath in shock, feeling my blood freeze up in fear.

"It's nice to see you again, Miss. Adler. Pity that your thanks was a trip to prison, but let's not dwell on that." With a lurch forwards, the carriage is off again, tilting roughly to the right, running over a pothole. "I have another task for you," the man says slyly, holding out a small off-white envelope for me to take.

I look down from him to the little rectangle and back. "I have done what you have asked me, I fulfilled my contract. That's me finished, therefore, I refuse to get involved in anymore of these acts of crime."

Professor Moriarty laughs cruelly and pulls out his gun, holding it in plain sight. "Have you not forgotten my previous statement on the train? I will kill him, Irene… And you as well…" The carriage begins to come down to a stop, "Take the papers, do what I have asked, and then you can go free."

As frightened as I am, I keep a straight face and quickly snatch the envelope from his leather gloved fingers. Carefully I unfold it, as not to rip it, and quickly read its contents. I set the papers down on my lap, my pulse running louder and faster in my ear. My expression hardens as I bite my lower lip. If he knows that he can intimidate me, it will only encourage him and it will let him know that he can easily get to me.

The door opens once again, revealing the driver. I slip the envelope into my pocket and make my way towards the marble building of the hotel. Though as I stand up a leather hand grasps my elbow. "Do not try to run away Miss Adler. Any attempt will be stopped. I can always will be able to find you."

Nodding, I step out of the carriage feeling helpless and numb, but I won't cry, I won't show weakness. No one takes any notice of me, so I must not look as terrified as I feel, and that's the only thing that matters. If they can't see my fear, then I am doing a good job at masking it.

Arriving at The Grand at last, I shut the door behind me with much more strength than intended, and I stay in my flinched position for several seconds afterwards, until the initial shock wears off; the door looks like it's in need of a good paint job and the knob could use a good polishing. Bending down, I lock the door. My breathing is still ragged, my shoulders tense, and my hand trembles slightly. The world is shut outside for the moment, but that doesn't change anything. I am not safe now, nor will I ever be.

Without really thinking at all, I mechanically move over to shut the curtains, thinking about all that happened. I didn't expect Sherlock to be forgiving, I didn't look or wish for a warm welcome, so his coldness didn't surprise me one bit, but nonetheless, I said what I needed to say, to do what I needed to do. If luck is on my side, I will never have to see him again.

Sitting down in an armchair, I read over the note that the professor has given me. Tomorrow afternoon, I must retrieve a letter from a doctor for him and deliver a bomb as payment. There isn't a lot of detail as to the importance of this letter, but I know that if I cannot fulfill my task, then there will be the devil to pay.

Lifting up my skirt, I bring them up over my head and set it to the side, then I do the same with my petticoats and begin to walk to the tub. I am in desperate need of a nice warm bath, so I slip away into the tub. The water trickles in the tub as I turn on the tap and step in, sighing deeply and splashing my face, washing away the powder and the makeup I had used to cover the lines under my eyes. I look as distressed as I feel.

You see, I had done what Professor Moriarty had hired me to do, I had distracted Sherlock down at the sewers; manipulated his feelings. That was my job, and it nearly cost me my life. And after escaping Scotland Yard, I believed that I had fulfilled my contract—for the second time. But for the second time I was wrong. It then became obvious to me that he would use me until Holmes was "defeated," and I know that only means until he is dead.

Stepping back out of the tub, I change into my nightgown, put my hair into a loose braid, and try to forget about things for a few minutes, though that's pretty much impossible since I've never been able to put things out of my head once they've been put in there.

A kindly chambermaid knocks on the door and brings me supper, some roast beef and potatoes with a side of corn. Hunger calls to me and as soon as she leaves, I light a few candles and eat as much as I can before the rest of my body can disagree with me.

I feel as if the walls are closing in, trying to suffocate me, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot fight back, I can't close my eyes and pretend that this is all a bad dream because it seems far too real for it to just be a dream.

All I can do now, after I have finished with my meal, is lie down and pray for sleep to come to me. Laying on my back against the satin pillows, I try to steady my breathing into a peaceful rhythm.

Whatever happened to me? The daring Irene Adler, who traveled the world, sang in the opera, stole, married rich men only to swindle them, did what she pleased. Well, that girl is gone, and in its place is a frightened woman caged by obligation, fear, and blackmail.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you all enjoyed the prologue of my story, even though it is much longer than I actually intended for it to be - Haha! Listening to the Sherlock Holmes soundtrack and watching the movies in the background really inspire me to get creative. In case you were wondering, I loosely based Mrs. Holmes off of Helena Bonham Carter's character in Enola Holmes, which is a great movie, too!
> 
> Unfortunately, my province has gone on a mandatory lockdown because we have such a high amount of COVID-19 cases, over 500,000 in Canada in total. It's unbelievable that this has been going on for so long. I do hope you're all staying home and staying safe and if you must go out, please protect yourself and those around you, social distance and wear your masks.
> 
> Doctor Watson's orders!

Sleep is nearly impossible, but then again, it's been a while since I've been able to rest without the fear of someone coming to kill me in the night. I toss and turn in the hotel bed, trying to find the best position to rest in, but nothing works; all I can think about is what I have to do and before I know it, the sky becomes lighter, shining on my face through a gap in the curtains; I squint my eyes and grumble something unintelligible under my breath. Whether I like it or not, I have to get a start on the day.

I have no clue as to why I dreamed about the photograph. It had been years since I'd left Godfrey. Sure he was a friend and he was sweet, but I had more pressing problems than dealing with the guilt of fooling him. But Godfrey was the resilient kind. He was terribly possessive and jealous, despite the fact that the marriage was a sham, Godfrey Norton did in all his power to keep his little wife on a leash, and I did not like that.

Divorce may have be difficult, but it was the cleanest way out, and with a little planning, I had framed him with adultery, and my case won, strangely enough I wasn't framing him at all, he was in Belgium with the maid. I suppose I was just as easy to manipulate as men were.

But it wasn't all daffodils and rainbows, in the eyes of society, a divorcee was a used toy, and that was why I went back to her theatre tour group and found my escape. I knew from then on that I couldn't trust anyone, so I hardened my heart and promised that I would never let my guard down or fall in love ever again.

I doubt my parents would be proud the things that I've done and will have to do in order to survive; it's hard enough being alive without anyone to take care of you, but having to put other people in danger or to take away their life is so much worse. I know there is always a way out, and we all have choices, and believe me when I tell you that I was once engaged to be married, but that was before he took advantage of me. That's why I'm much more guarded and untrusting of people, especially men, and that's why I flip the table so that I'm the one who comes out as champion, because I'm tired of being the vulnerable one, the damsel in distress who needs a strong man to come and save her.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying that all men are like this, in fact, a select handful of the people I get engaged to have been very kind and loving, but the truth is, I am not interested in any of them, I only have eyes for one man, but there's little to no chance that he could ever feel the same way about me; Being in love with anyone, no less a criminal, would go against everything he believes in. Like how love is a chemical defect found in the losing side, and how it would distract him from his work.

Plus, between you and me, sometimes I think that he and Doctor Watson have something that goes far beyond friendship. Brotherhood, perhaps? No, they are so much closer than that. Lovers? It is strange how my mind can go to those sorts of places, but if you just saw them, really saw them, you can clearly see that they belong together. For years, it's always been Holmes and Watson, the unstoppable, crime-solving duo, and now that I've been thrown into the mix, I am ruining his chance at being happy with someone who deserves him.

_Wait, isn't he engaged to Mary Morstan?_

I haven't been fortunate enough to meet Mary, but maybe that's a good thing. No doubt Watson has told her about our last escapade before I was arrested by Scotland Yard and she probably isn't too thrilled with the fact that he almost got killed trying to save Sherlock and I. Pondering the thought for a little while longer, I run my fingers through my mess of hair, coming across a stubborn tangle that won't come out simply by trying to remove with my fingers, I have to go over to the vanity and brush it out, which doesn't take too long or too much effort.

Then I begin to fix myself up; there are dark circles underneath my eyes from the lack of sleep, I cover them up with a bit of powder; there are bruises on the side of my head and cheeks, I cover those up, too; I slip on a corset and then a dress over the cuts on my arms and legs. No one needs to see my hideous scars, no one needs to know my horrible backstory.

Lastly, I find a pair of black gloves, a matching blue hat and a warm pair of boots, perfect for the unpredictable March weather;

I've never truly felt safe being alone in the streets, especially since I don't have any means of defense. Then why am I doing this to begin with? Is it a mistake? None of it makes sense to me, but maybe I am just being paranoid. After all, things seem to be alright after the arrest and death of Lord Blackwood, perhaps one of the most insane criminals to ever grace London's stone cold streets and people appear to be more at ease, smiling and greeting each other as they passed by.

But who's to say that other, much more dangerous criminals couldn't make their grand entrance and threaten an already crumbling city?

"Bombing in Strasbourg! Read all about it!" A voice screams in the distance, "Anarchists suspected in Strasbourg bombing! Bombing in Strasbourg!"

The year is 1891. Storm clouds are brewing over Europe. France and Germany are at each others throats The result of a series of bombings. Some say it is nationalists, Others the anarchists. I, myself, do not know who or what to believe or who to trust; same story, different versions, no possibility is dismissed, all I do know: war is inevitable, and the world is preparing for it. People have been whispering about it in the streets, about how their men would soon be deployed, one of my dear friends, or I suppose I should say acquaintances, Doctor John Watson, is a decorated soldier, and just the thought of him having to go back there, reliving all of those horrible nightmares, makes my feet freeze in their tracks and I shake my head, trying to rid my mind of painful thoughts.

_Come on, Irene, focus! You have a job to do and very little time to do it._

___You don't want your employer to get impatient, do you?_ _ _

Now, you may be wondering what I could possibly be doing with a package; As you can tell by the way I keep looking to see if I'm being followed, nothing good will come out of this at all, in fact, countless people could probably die, but this was the task assigned to me by my employer, so I don't have any choice in the matter, and trust me when I tell you this: You do not want to get on his bad side. Unless you have a death wish.

_Which I do not. Not today, at least._

I make my way down the narrow cobblestone streets, passing by the railroad system that was being built, this is after all, a new empire, there is always something new being built; Beggar children grip onto my arms and their hoarse voices and hungry eyes tug at my heartstrings and I spread the little money I have on hand among each of them. I may be a world-class criminal, but that doesn't mean I'm heart-hearted, besides, I know what it's like. I've been in their place, and so if the kindest thing I can do for them is provide a little money for food, clothes and shelter, I will do what I can.

Apparently the sun has decided to come out for a change, instead of hiding in his mansion of clouds and threatening to bring rain upon his kingdom. Personally, I rather enjoy the rain, it makes for pleasant mornings in my hotel room, reading a book by the fireplace or enjoying a nice cup of tea, but today, I gladly welcome the change in weather, at least it helps to lighten my mood somewhat.

I pass by someone sleeping on two bails of hay, there's something familiar about him that I can't quite put my finger on, but I don't stay too long, I move on, turning right.

Suddenly, someone whistles close by and my head snaps in every direction, trying to pinpoint the source; I feel an arm being linked through mine and I turn to the right, prepared to defend myself if necessary, but there's no need. "When did you start working for the postal service?"

_Sherlock Holmes, How do we always end up running into each other? _I laugh to myself with a roll of my eyes.__

"That was you back there. I should have known that you would follow me. A shame your activities have landed you in the gutter."

I hear him chuckle as the two of us continue to walk along the sidewalks, glancing now and then at the costume he's wearing. He's dressed as a street merchant, complete with a bald cap which has a short braid at the back, a long goatee, and a pair of glasses.

"A curious parcel, who is the intended recipient?" He asks as he takes the parcel, and for one second, our hands brush against each other; even though these gloves provide protection against the chilly autumn wind, it still makes my skin crawl and it gives me an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

"Why don't we discuss that over dinner? We have a lot of catching up to do."

"I'm free for lunch," he replies as we turn a corner, passing by a vendor selling beans, rice, anything that can be used in the art of Chinese cooking.

"Hmmm. I'm not. How about Savoy? Eight o'clock?"

"Splendid."

"Hmm, And will you becoming as yourself?" I ask, referring to the disguise he is wearing and I must say, he looks convincing, but something about him is still recognizable.

"Most likely!" He nods, looking around; he seems to get the sense that we are being followed, and I thought I was just being overly paranoid. His head turns so that he's looking directly at me, and moving closer to me, he lowers his voice to a quiet whisper, but he fails to hide the urgency. "Three men have been following you for the last half mile. Their motives? Highly unsavory."

"No," With wide eyes, I follow his gaze and they're right behind us; but they don't travel together as men of that sort usually would, they decide to spread out, each of them going in a different direction as not to appear suspicious, and so that they can corner me in one of these dark alleys; though I don't appear as terrified as I should be, in fact, as I lead him down to an alleyway and the men start to walk out and swarm around me, I actually smirk triumphantly. "Oh, by the way, they're not pursuing me, they're escorting me. And instead of three, it seems to be...ah four." I can read the look on his face like the cover of a book; he's not scared, either, he smiles and shakes his head while I sneak the package from my hand. This time, I don't feel the same tingling sensation that I did just moments ago.

"Steady hands with that, Irene," he warns me with a chastising look.

"Oh, I don't think it's my hands you've to worry about," I smile at the men and pat his cheek almost affectionately, but more in a teasing sort of way. "Now, be careful with the face, boys. We do have a dinner date tonight. Don't fill up on bread." And with that, I walk away from the alley and make my way to the Auction Room where the intended recipient of the package, is waiting for me.

Green. That is the first thing I notice as I stand across the street from the Auctioneers. The massive awning is an olive green that represents the colour of money, something that I, and a lot of other people in London, clearly possess. My feet boldly take me up to the doorstep, and for a moment, I think that I can sneak in without an issue; that is until a curious guard grabs my attention. "Miss? Are you here for the auction? It's already started." He seems friendly enough, and me, being an expert in this sort of field, know exactly how to buy my way in.

"Yes," I manage to put on a glowing smile. "My carriage broke down so I had to run the rest of the way."

"Oh, well, I'm sure you will find something to your liking in there, enjoy."

And it works like a charm, he politely holds the door for me. It is remarkable how easily a man can be swayed. They think they have the upper hand, but we women? We are the most fearsome things to ever walk the Earth, we can be beautiful and deadly, and you can never tell which side of us you'll see.

At least that's what my mother always told me; she had passed her charm and wit onto me, her only daughter, and it was clear that from the men she occasionally allowed into her house, that they adored women like that. But I wish they would see us as more than just visual works of art, like my father did. True, I only knew him through photographs and the letters that he would send to my mother whilst he was overseas, explaining how the days had grown colder and the days longer, and how happy he was when he would finally get to meet his child.

_But that never happened._

War doesn't just corrupt people, it also takes them away and twists them up until they can no longer see the small, fleeting joy that life brings, and all they can picture when they come back home, if they ever do, is just how cruel and harsh the world can truly be, until someone comes around and shows them that there is still hope, and beauty and love.

Keeping my head low enough so that I can avoid eye contact, because surely people have seen me in the papers, but high enough to be able to see where I'm going, I make my way inside, and can feel the guard watching me, and hearing him talking to one of the others, I have been in this game long enough to know what they are saying, nothing unfriendly, of course.

Now that I am inside, it is time to go to work. My eyes instantly scan the room for Doctor Hoffmanstahl. There are many rich, old men lingering about the room, and planting my finger on just one isn't very easy, especially when I have never met him in person. The auction has already started and as I make my way further in, a tiny smile crosses my face, I am tempted to steal one of these just for the fun of it, but there's really nothing here that I can easily carry without being spotted.

A man in a deep blue top hat seems to be watching me; I look back at him and make a deduction of my own. His skin is utterly pale, having just been in the coldest part of Germany. His white hair and mustache are properly groomed so he looks every bit as dignified and important as his career.

_A doctor of his expertise will not need a cane or even glasses._

___He's the man I'm looking for._ _ _

_____Take a deep breath, Irene, you can do this._ _ _ _ _

______"We now come to lot thirty-four…" The man's voice is oozing and tempting, as if what he is going to offer was some sort of fairy-tale castle. For a second, I focus my attention on the item being sold, keeping the unwrapped bomb underneath my arm, being mindful of its sensitivity to outer movement. "Egyptian sarcophagus of outstanding providence, retrieved from the Valley of the Kings. Who will bid one hundred pounds?"_ _ _ _ _ _

I find a spot next to him and wait to make sure that no one is looking before I hand over the package. "Your payment, Doctor. He sends his thanks." I say quietly and turn back to the podium. The auction has already started, and spectators continue to swirl about the room; the whole place is itching with treasures. Those pieces should be locked away in a museum; not sold to someone who doesn't need any more money.

"Please give this to him," the doctor replies, his German accent is thick and I can tell he can speak his native language fluently. "He's expecting it. Tell him our friend thinks I delivered it to his sister." With a nod, I stand up to leave, wondering who this friend is, but the gentleman clears his throat and lightly takes the sleeve of my dress. "Ah... Stay while I check the contents."

I slowly sit back down. "I was assured full payment would be there," In trade, the doctor hands me a letter addressed to one Simza Heron; I am not sure who she is, but I suspect she is the sister of this friend he is speaking of; only my employer knows the answer to this; he needs this letter because it contains some valuable information that he wants; and knowing better than to ask questions, I simply have to get it and hand it over to him, and then my job will be done.

_Of course, that's wishful thinking._

"Yes, but assured by whom? Have you ever met him in person?" I don't even bother to grace that question with a response. The Doctor seems not to care a wink for my presence. I am just the one passing on a message and as long as he gets the payment that is due, he will continue to be civil towards me. "Or, like me, have you been-"

His fingers are sliding open the box. Any second now, the bomb will go off and the flames would engulf the building, reducing it from a place of power and exploit, to nothing but ash and dust and I don't want to be here when that happens.

_Clink._

A number thirty-three sign suddenly appeared on the bomb's handle, stopping the eruption.

"Hold it, hold it…Please, don't move it." Sherlock Holmes has soiled my plans again and I silently groan, rolling my eyes. "Judging by the size and weight, it's not the payment you expected," he explains to the Doctor. "I'd wager the contents are rather more… incendiary."

"Who is this?" Doctor Hoffmanstahl demands, still not aware of the issue at hand. It is clear that he has no idea what power he holds within his grasp.

"It doesn't matter" If I try to explain, it will all come out as nonsense; perhaps I was wrong when I said that men do not have the upper hand, well, at least in this situation anyway. I will never admit this, and I'm surprised that I'm even thinking about it, but I am secretly grateful that Sherlock showed up at the very last second, though what else would I expect? Saving the day was always a forte of his and he could easily take care of things.

Sherlock, however, cracks a toothy smile. "Hello, darling," he says cheerily as he goes to kiss me on the cheek and for one second, my mind goes blank.

_Wait, is he trying to take the letter from me? He wouldn't kiss me for no reason at all, would he?_

Flustered, I clasp the letter tightly in my hand and attempt to hide the fact that my heart rate and pulse has elevated. I shut my eyes for a moment to compose myself, when a sudden whirring sound floods my ears and I look down at the bomb.

"Oh, dear," he sighs and I no longer feel his lips against my cheek. "I told you not to move it. It seems a secondary charge has been activated." My eyes shoot open to see the bomb ticking and that's my cue to leave and make my escape, but his hand lands on my shoulder and I slump back down, quite unladylike I might add, into my seat. "Sweet thing, I might need your help in the disposal of this parcel."

_Did he just call me 'sweet thing'? The nerve of him!_

"One million pounds!" He suddenly announces, catching everyone's attention. "Oh, and by the way… fire." The crowd is out of that store in two seconds flat, leaving the three of us alone and unprotected. I look around the room, things are starting to heat up; I feel my face getting hot as I come up with a plan on the spot to get the letter back. "Leave my side and you'll be dead within an hour."

"Oh, and don't be late for dinner!" I say as I whirl around to face Sherlock. "I expect that my schedule will be quite tight because of the activities here."

Our faces are dangerously close, close enough for me to do something impulsive. "I'm never late in my life. Only early." He mutters softly and I can tell I am getting a reaction out of him.

"Passionately," I whisper against his lips, and using the same trick he did on me, I occupy his mind with a kiss, while at the same time, reaching for that darn letter. Whoever this Simza person is, I hope that she knows what I've gone through to retrieve it for her. That is if she was actually going to be getting it. I wish she was.

"Very witty!" I hear Sherlock say as he pulls away from me. "So confident, even in retreat." He lifts his brows and he wags it tauntingly in my face. "I'll hold onto that. We'll read it together over an aperitif."

"Fine," I coo, pouting my lips like a child who did not get their own way. I might have lost round one, but there is always room for round two. "Dinner and a show." Without another word, I leave the building and step out into the fresh air. Now, thanks to my friend here, I have to deal with my employer emptyhanded.

_Well, that didn't exactly go according to plan did it? Now, he's going to do something horrible to me, or more importantly, to Sherlock._

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge as I blindly make my way down the dusty London, like a child; scared of a monster that could jump out at any given moment and eat me alive. Only, my monster is real. And there are no parents to come and comfort me. My eyes are preoccupied, darting in every direction, searching; Every shadow, crevice, open doorway; he could be hiding anywhere. I pause for a moment.

Many bits of my hair had fallen out of the bun under my hat and sat in messy curls around my face. Some long, some short. The makeup I had used to cover the lines under my eyes had now been wiped off somehow, and a light sweat covered my forehead. And my cheeks remained still flustered. There is no hiding it, for my face can now be easily read. I was distressed, I was I liked it or not, I was still in his service. And The Professor didn't seem to have any intentions of releasing me. If he did, I wouldn't be as I was at the moment. I had done what he had asked, I had distracted Sherlock down at the sewers; manipulated his feelings. That was my job, and it nearly cost me my life.

"Are you alright, miss?" A passerby asks and I force an uneasy smile.

"Just a little tired, but I'm fine, thank you." She nods and then keeps walking, a little terrier comes trotting behind her.

Again, I have to restrain myself from crying and making a scene; he thinks that by threatening me and saying that he's going to kill him, he can intimidate me and make me feel weak, but he's wrong. At least that's what I want him to think. I am hoping that there will be hundreds of people at the restaurant, so the chances of him doing something rash, like poisoning me in front of them, or even bringing out a gun if he's in that kind of mood, are slim to none, but despite this as soon as I am taken to my table, I glance warily at the teacup sitting in front of me.

"Ah... fresh pot of tea, thank you, George," I say to the waiter and I feel the slight tremble in my voice. I am not completely fearless, you know. I have dealt with hundreds of clients before, but none of them were as cunning or devious as him.

"Fine choice, this place," the familiar voice of Professor James Moriarty says from somewhere behind me. I inconspicuously glance at the curtain separating the two of us and realize that that's where he's hiding. "Do you have the letter?"

"It was taken," I reply, keeping my eyes downcast so he can't see the look of failure in my eyes.

"Taken? Now, that is unfortunate." I can hear the light tapping of his pen against the table.

"During the chaos created by your package," I exclaimed, nodding a thank you to George and waiting until he leaves before I continue. "Perhaps, if you have shared your plans -"

"You wish to know my plans now, do you?" He says, his tone menacingly darker than it was seconds ago.

"It's part of the client deal, is it not?" I lean forwards again. "If you want to hire me, then I would appreciate knowing the end result."

He ignores my comment. "Do you imagine Miss Adler, that something would happen to you? Is that why you chose to meet here, in a public place? Your favorite restaurant."

Someone from one of the far corners of the place, clinks a cup and suddenly, everyone in the restaurant rises from their seats and walks away, leaving me confused and worried. Were these people paid to come here? Are they all secretly Moriarty's agents, or did he threaten them, too? Nothing can stop my hands from trembling as I pick up the tea cup and take a small sip.

_What are you so afraid of? Surely you can take him on if you have to!_

Unfortunately, however, I am unarmed.

But the thought quickly vanishes as he reveals himself, his thinning straw blond hair is combed to the sides and his moustache is trimmed, making him look like the dignified intellectual that many people believe him to be, though even that can't hide the monster that lies beneath the surface. At least he can't hide it from me.

"I don't blame you. I blame myself. It's been apparent to me for some time that you have succumbed to your feelings for him."

"He's nothing to me." I snap back. They say I'll get hurt if I'm not like ice and so I gave up my nice-girl act and became a stone-cold seductress and that's what I've become, someone who uses a man's most vulnerable emotion and use it against them.

_Do you think I planned to mess things up? What makes you think I wanted to do this in the first place?_

"And this isn't the first occasion Mr. Holmes has inconvenienced me in recent months. The question is, what to do about it? But that's my problem to solve now. I no longer require your services." That can only mean one thing.

_He's poisoned the tea somehow._

___No! This can't be happening!_ _ _

I glance down at my tea and suddenly, my heart skips a beat and I push the cup and saucer back, standing up and then walking away from the table, but not before I look over my shoulder.

"I am not afraid of dying." And what I say is true, I am not afraid of dying, or death. Besides, who would miss me, anyways? I don't have any living relatives, and my friends, once they found out about my double life, abandoned me saying that they didn't care what happened to me. So what's the whole point?

"Oh, no, my dear," he says with a smile, "I am not planning on killing you, at least not yet. I will allow you to leave. I may be a monster, but I am not without morals."

A haughty laugh nearly escapes my lips, but knowing better, I keep it to myself; Nothing could be further from the truth, but some part of me, the part that for some reason, still wants to live, runs out the door and out into the fresh air and leans against the wall, putting my hand to my chest.

I am halfway down the street, crossing into an alley before I collapse onto the ground.

Something deep inside, an inner voice tells me it is alright, that there is no use trying to fight any longer. I can let go and all of the pain will be over. I have thought about this for months on end, sometimes I have my really dark moments when all I can think about is just how easy it would be just to die. It would be easier on everyone, easier on Sherlock. He doesn't deserve to be treated like this, like a piece in a game. He deserves so much more than I can possibly give him. If he can forget me, stop chasing me then he can move on knowing that he's won.

Tired of the pulsing fire that eats my flesh, I allow the shadows to take me.

I allow myself to give in.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to be writing this chapter from Sherlock's perspective; yes, this is my own scene that in a perfect world, would be in the movie. Everyone has their own theories about how Irene supposedly survived Moriarty's attempts at murdering her, and I'd like to know yours. Also, show of hands, who wants them both in the third movie - whenever that's actually going to be released - and have a cute little reunion? *raises hand* Yes! Let's make it happen, eh? And yes, I borrowed some of Arthur Conan Doyle's words from The Final Problem, because, why not?
> 
> I just hope that even though some things may be uncharacteristic, you all still like the story anyways.

I walk out of Cromwell & Griff, where the auction has drawn to an abrupt conclusion following the unexpected event, and into the early afternoon breeze. It's pleasantly warm for this time of year, but the chilly breeze is the reason why I keep my jacket on.

The sun has disappeared behind the wall of clouds, obviously it doesn't even want to be bothered anymore, either. I regret letting Irene go off on her own, I should go after her, but more than likely, she's already gone the other way and out of my sight. I shake my head, knowing she's fully capable of taking care of herself. When I turn around, I see the doctor leaning up against the wall I lean down and place my fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse, but I find none. Frowning, I spot something on his leg. A dart. Poison. I glance at the crowd of people, but no one appears suspicious, except for a man wearing a brown suit and matching hat, but his back is turned toward me so I can't make anything out.

Shrugging, I stuff the dart into my pocket so that I can analyze it when I get back to Baker Street. Inspector Lestrade and his men are standing just outside, and there are some firemen here, too. It's true that we don't get along all that well; his impatience with me clashes with his kindness to clients, and his level of education appears limited, at least by my standards. Despite being described uncharitably by Dr. Watson, Lestrade is pleasant to him, even implying to Watson in a comic way that he doubts my sanity, which seems reasonable if I'm being honest, but on those rare occasions, we can just as easily make a great crime-solving team.

"Impeccable timing, Lestrade," I say in my usual manner in which we greet each other, walking over to him as the officers, including Constable Clarke, one of my closest friends besides Watson, go inside the building.

He tilts his head and his hat goes a little lopsided, "You seem to be a bit frazzled, Holmes. Are you quite well?"

"Well, I barely stopped everyone from being blown to smithereens, why wouldn't I be?" I answer, bitterly. As he can tell, I'm anxious to get home and am in no frame of mind to have a lengthy conversation and waste precious time.

"Word tells me that Irene Adler was seen walking out, she seemed in a foul mood. You wouldn't happen to know about this, would you?"

"Of course I do, I was there." Rolling my eyes, I shift from one foot to another, really, I just want to go home, back to my experiments and see what this dart is about.

"I know, I just wanted to see your reaction," he chuckles and smiles smugly, as if he's just made the discovery of the century. "You have feelings for her, don't you?"

Lifting my head, I stiffen my posture and shake my head in denial.

_Feelings? For Irene Adler? Where did you come up with such a notion, Inspector?_

"What makes you think that? As you know, love and feelings have never been my strong points. Now, please, will you stop pestering me and do your job? There is a crowd over there in a frenzy." I point to where people gather around, wondering what's going on.

"I may not be as good at deduction as you are, but I know the eyes of a lovesick fool when I see one. She's the only woman ever to have outsmarted you. Twice."

"Alright you've had your fun."

"Made a proper idiot out of you." Oddly enough, Watson said the same thing to me whilst I ran into her during the Blackwood case.

Watson! He must have been talking with the inspector. No, the doctor finds him almost as, or it's as he once said to me, he has eyes everywhere.

"It's time to press on. Doctor Hoffmanstahl is dead, found with a suspicious dart in his leg."

"It was poisoned," he says, leaning in to get a closer look and I want to say 'now we have a firm grasp of the obvious' or something along those lines, but instead, I take a few steps toward home.

"The fire should be out, but you might want to double check a few things and settle the crowd. Good luck." With a smile of my own, I nod and walk away.

Stepping into Baker Street, with a confident grin on my face, shrugging off my coat, and nearly tripping over Gladstone - the poor dog, I am just about to go up the stairs when Watson steps in front of me with his arms folded across his chest.

"Good heavens!" I cry, bringing a hand to my already fragile heart; "how you startled me!"

"And where do you think you're off to?" He asks and the tone in his voice reminds me of my father's when Mycroft and I were boys and he would sense that the two of us were getting into mischief, or planning it. And I certainly am planning a bit of mischief.

"I have a feeling we're getting a case soon, Watson, and it's going to be a good one," I say with a spring in my step and at first glance, Mrs. Hudson, who has only finished dusting my room for me, shakes her head and leaves the room, probably wondering what's gotten me in such a state, but she knows enough not to ask. I hope she doesn't expect me to keep it this clean forever, I'm not a tidy person, and I'm sure that by the time the day ends, everything will be where it was before.

"Well, you're not usually this worked up about a case, so I suggest you tell me where it is you're really going. It's not to see _that woman, _is it?" I stop in my tracks, and I want to say no, but I know that there's no point in lying or trying to hide it. He's almost as good a detective as I am.__

_Almost._

"Yes, it is. She has agreed to discuss with me the importance of this letter." I hold it out and he turns the envelope over in his hands.

"Who's Simza Heron?" He raises an eyebrow and I can see the ghost of a smirk on his face. "An old flame? A past lover?"

"Wherever did you get such a notion, Watson? She is as much a mystery to me as she is to you, but that woman," I close my eyes, sighing. "Irene knows who she is. She has information, and if I can just get her to tell me, then we can save her, whoever she is that's why I'm going to see her tonight."

"And I suppose Irene will just give you this information freely? This actress has only been toying with you for her own entertainment," Watson says, "She leaves you just to laugh as you try to catch her. And as much as you'd like to think that she loves you, 'love' is a word that doesn't seem to be in her vocabulary, much less your own. She does not love. She only wants what comes with it. You very well know that. Why else would she marry so many other unfortunate men?"

It's as though he has spoken my most inner thoughts, but hearing them being said out loud, they are like harsh slaps across the face. I do wish that he wouldn't be so over-protective of me, but I know that the pain of losing his friends and comrades in the war has made him more anxious about me going into dangerous situations and risking my own life for the sake of keeping others alive.

"She is terrified, Watson, you should have seen her face when I showed up at the auction room. She puts on this act that she's tough, but I can see right through it."

"Well, you won't be going out dressed like a ruffian," he laughs. "We need to find you something proper to wear."

I roll my eyes as he searches through my closet. I will miss him dearly once he moves out and lives a life of his own. It won't be long now before the two of them are married and he would no longer be working with me. Why did he have to choose her over me? It sounds selfish to some people, but Watson was like a brother to me. There was a reason why I hired that fortune teller to ask her to predict their future, there was a reason why I tried, and am still trying, to prevent them from getting married. I don't want to lose my best friend.

_If only he'd understand how much he means to me, if only he could see how much I care about him. And perhaps he cares about me the same way._

"Ah, this is just the thing, and this will look much better than the one you've got on now. I will leave you to change and then we will fix up your hair." I do as I'm told, for once, and Gladstone sits by the fireplace, in his favourite spot. He's a good dog, always so well-behaved, when we have clients, he just lays there and doesn't bother anyone. It almost makes me feel guilty for involving him in my crazy experiments.

I guess that's why Watson won't let me have a dog of my own. He peeks his head up and walks over to me, then sits at my feet. His black eyes lock onto mine in such a way, that it makes me lose focus on everything else. I know what he's trying to do. He wants me to pick him up so he can sit on my lap. "Those adorable puppy eyes won't work on me, old boy." He just keeps staring at me and a little whimper comes from him. I curse under my breath, it's almost impossible to say no to him. "Alright, just this once." I bend down to pick him up and then place him down on my lap, stroking the top of his head and he lays right down. I can't help but smile at him. "You've won this round, but next time, we'll see who's top dog."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Holmes?" Watson asks when he comes back with a comb, not paying any mind to Gladstone, and I sit up a little straighter, trying my best not to disturb him. "She is unpredictable, she always finds away to come out on top." He starts to comb through my tangled locks. Who knew that hair like mine needed so much upkeep? I suppose it's partially my fault for allowing it to get this way.

"Not this time. Chances are, her employer won't be too thrilled that she was unable to retrieve the letter for him. Though what he needs it for, that's what I'm trying to find out."

"And you think you can somehow get the information out of her? What are you going to do, woo her?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

"She has her methods, Watson, so do I." Once I am finished with my transformation and Watson gives me a look of satisfaction, I suddenly feel nervous, a new experience for me. It's as if I'm back in the schoolhouse and I am being asked to deliver a presentation in front of the entire class, that same feeling of nausea crashes over me. Irene and I have this unspoken thing between us that's been going on for years. It's not exactly what you'd call love or even friendship, maybe something in between. Whatever it is, I feel this overwhelming responsibility to keep her out of trouble. Even though it often means following her into it.

"Be careful," he warns like the incredible and irreplaceable friend that he is. I give him a nod and then go straight down the stairs and almost collide into Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She is making tea for Watson and one of his clients when she sees me all dressed up and folds her arms across her chest.

"And where do you think you're going? It's nearly seven o'clock and you haven't eaten dinner yet."

"I have an appointment with a client," I reply, which is still technically true, to some extent. "I wish I could stay, but I must go."

"Oh, no. Not without bundling up you're not." She finds a coat and scarf and then a pair of warm gloves.

"Honestly, Nanny," I say. She hates it when I call her that, but this time she doesn't say anything about it. "you needn't to worry about me. I already have Watson to do that job for me and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

She wants to disagree with me, my behaviour lately would tell her and you otherwise; staying in my room, doing who knows what, poisoning myself with toxic chemicals, practicing my violin at three in the morning, all reasons she should be concerned about me, but instead, she sighs. She's not my mother, though I do see her as a parental figure and I wish I could help her see that I really appreciate her. But if it's one thing I am not particularly good at, it's expressing my emotions.

"Alright, I expect you home by ten o'clock, young man. No exceptions."

"Yes, Nanny." I roll my eyes, giving her a playful little smirk. She shakes her head and lightly smacks my shoulder before I'm out the door.

Throughout the ride to the restaurant, my nervousness does not lessen. It's not a good feeling. And the worst thing is, it's all because of a girl. A woman, and I've never been so insecure with a woman before.

The carriage stops as soon as my pocket watch reads 7:30. I survey the room, but there is no sign of Irene. I realize that I am half an hour early and so she might not be here for a little while longer. The waitress recognizes me immediately and I can tell that she is a fan of my work. Her flecked grey and blue eyes remind me so much of Irene's, though they lack that bewitching sparkle that I find admirable. She leads me to a table the center of the room and as I sit myself down, I glance around at the people around 's best if I mind my own business, but I can't help when this happens, it's as involuntary as blinking, breathing or swallowing.

Most of the men and women in this room are couples, only one young woman sits alone, as if she's waiting for someone to show up, too, then again, most women don't ever leave their homes without an escort. As I get a closer look at her, I realize that she is crying. Perhaps her date left her or didn't show up. I am about to ask her what's wrong, but she stands up forcefully and then leaves the premises.

I've been sitting here for the past hour, and she still hasn't arrived yet. I get the feeling that something isn't right. It is not like Irene to be late for anything. She seemed in quite a hurry when we last spoke, and behind her act, I could sense panic. I look down at my pocket watch for the hundredth time, it is half past nine. My appetite is lost now and though the food is tempting, the steam is coming off of it, and the pleasant aromas fill my nostrils, I am afraid that if I eat one more bite, something will press down on my stomach and bring it all up again.

I shove my chair back and step out of the restaurant, making sure to leave the waitress a generous tip before going out.

Dark navy paints the heavens, and the air is much colder now that the sun has set. Fixing my scarf so that it completely covers my neck, I stroll through the streets, trying to clear my head. I should have known that the professor would not let her off so easily after the minor setback in his plans. And knowing him, I'm already starting to fear the worst. As if in an ominous warning, I spot a silhouette walking down in the middle of an alleyway. The flight side of me tells me that I should turn around and run the other way, but my more dominant fight side, tells me that I should investigate. And of course, that's the side I choose to listen to.

I am relieved to see that it is just a group of boys chasing after each other. They seem pretty happy, and I laugh lightly when I see the baker running after them shaking a rolling pin in his hand, then I hear someone, a woman, screaming and I feel my heart stop beating, just for one second; Irene is probably about to be shot, or be blown up— Perhaps a good combination of the two at this very moment. Or perhaps she has gotten captured and is being tortured. Every moment that is wasted in standing here like a statue is another possibility.

A frenzy of trepidation rises inside of me; a feeling of helplessness and being too late. The thought that I could've prevented this outcome plagues my thoughts with grief. But you were too late... You are too late… I attempt to push it all back down and revert back to my usual manner; being afraid and getting all emotional isn't going. Lost in my thoughts I hardly notice the body of a woman, face first in the mud. In quick haste I kneel down to inspect her.

"Irene!"

Her almost glowing white pale skin is easily recognizable, and her blue dress is wet from the rain; she must have collapsed from sheer exhaustion and has been here for hours judging by how soaked her dress is. Her chestnut brown tresses are scattered in multiple places and her blue eyes are wide open, holding a sudden sadness or is it fear? I can't tell; all I know for certain is that there is no spark and no amusement that I normally see. It makes my heart ache as my senses trick me into seeing a tear rolling down her cheek. The past emotions are jumbled away; elation that I have found her overcomes them. There is no way I would know how she got caught up in all of this crime and law-breaking and no doubt if Watson were here with me right now, he would probably offer me some sage advice, and undoubtedly tell me that I should leave her be and not get mixed up in anymore of her shenanigans, but once again, my own voice of reason convinces me to take her somewhere safe, in case he decides that Moriarty wants to finish the job.

Quickly removing my glove, I use what little medical training Watson gave me to check her pulse. As I put my hand to her neck, I note that her skin is ice cold and coated in sweat. I clasp my hand around her cold one, and leaned in to put my ear to the woman's heart. I close my eyes and pray. I will remind you that I am by no means a religious man, but in this uncertain moment, if anyone is said to be able to heal all wounds, it's Him.

_Silence…_

My mind flashes back to the day we met, when she had looked so terribly frightened and alone and when she ran away from our house. I wanted so badly to help her. This is exactly what she looks like right now, that same frightened little girl who just needed someone she could depend on. Who needed a friend. She was unlike any little girl I'd ever known; she had not attended finishing school, at least not until she left us, I presume; she was always dashing about, playing in the mud, splashing in puddles; there was always this inner child inside of her that no one could possibly shake away.

_Silence…_

Losing all hope, my hand moves towards her jaw, and I stare down into her ice cold face, surprised to feel a droplet of water roll out of my eye and roll down my cheek. Thinking of her being gone forever, it is unimaginable and the more I think about it, the more distressed I become, for once I allow myself to be vulnerable, to show the world that I have moments of weakness, too.

Contrary to what people may think, I am not emotionless and I am not cold-hearted. I rely more on logic than emotions to solve a problem because if I allow anger and sadness to cloud my judgement, I cannot make the right decisions or get the answers I need to help them. And if I allow my enemies to see what pushes me or makes me vulnerable, or who I care about, they will use it or them to their advantage. I remember what happened to Watson at the slaughterhouse whilst we had been solving the Blackwood case; I will never forget the shrapnel that was embedded into his shoulders and back. It should have been me that day. Not him.

"Please," I whisper to whoever's up there, supposedly listening, "If you can hear me, or if you're even there at all, just do me this one favor."

_Thump…thump...thump._

My eyes widen. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again!" I exhale loudly, feeling and hearing my voice crack, and squeeze her hand as if to assure her that she will be alright now. Irene is alive. I hold her thin and light form to my chest, knowing how cold she must be and just when I think that all of my prayers have been answered, Watson comes out of a carriage, his feet splash in the mud as he runs over to me.

"What in Heaven's name!-" he exclaims and kneels down, quickly examining her. "She's alive, but we're not out of the woods yet; she has severe hypothermia and I'm afraid if we don't hurry up, it will be irreversible. In other words, she'll-"

"Don't say it, Watson, I already feared the worst when she failed to show up to our meeting." Gently, as if handling a child, I slide one hand to cradle her head, and place the other where her legs bend. Even by feeling the fabric of her clothes I know that she is freezing, as if she'd been tossed into the lake. Slowly, but urgently, I draw her up and bring her as close to me as I possibly can so that her head rests on my chest and to warm her up just a little. She's surprisingly very light, much lighter than the average woman should be. I suspect that she's been skipping meals, which can come in hand when one has to be nimble, but it's not healthy.

_Who am I to criticize?_

"Hold on, Irene. We're almost there," I whisper to her, adjusting my position so that her head is resting on my lap, then I grab the blanket from beside me and wrap it around her. Latching the carriage door shut, Watson climbs into the front, shakes the horses' reigns, and the beasts quickly began their trot on the flooded path. The rocking of the carriage and the splashing of hooves against the mud calms my rattling nerves. There is little doubt in my mind that Moriarty is finished with her yet.

Finally, we arrive back to our flat; and Watson smiles sadly at me as I take Irene into my arms again, "I'll give her medical care and make sure she's strong enough before I leave with Mary. I can't guarantee anything, but I'll do my best to keep her alive."

* * *

Inside, Mrs. Hudson prepares a warm bath; Watson removes Irene's dress, careful to preserve her modesty, which I wonder to myself if she still has. Her normally pale complexion seems to have dropped whiter by three shades, seemingly deathly. Cuts and slashes tear at her skin and cover her normally square and beautiful cheeks and forehead; they appear to be older, though, so no one came to bother her while she was resting on the pavement.

"What have they done to you?" I ask, bringing a cloth up to wipe away the sweat on her brow; I clear my throat and lean back in my chair.

As the doctor examines her, I hold her hand so she won't be in pain; I know this is probably insane; Moriarty is going to use her to unravel me, and I realize all the tumult that will come with simply bringing her in? Moriarty will learn that she's at Baker Street and all hell will break loose. He must already know that she has feelings for me, but if he finds out the same about me, he will use that against me and possibly harm her, or myself.

""Don't you worry, sweet thing, I won't let any harm come to you, not anymore." I vow, and I open my mouth to say something else, when Mrs. Hudson comes in with a large white towel.

"The bath is ready, Doctor, and I've laid out a set of cloths so you can clean her wounds."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, we'll be there in a few minutes," he smiles and stands to his feet, taking Irene. I want to be near her, to watch over her and reassure her that everything will be alright; I hate seeing her so lifeless and empty, and all I can think of is that I wasn't there for her when she truly needed me. I should have saved her, that day on the bridge, I should have taken her with me, somewhere where no one would find her or harm her while I continued to work on solving the world's problems, but all I can do is sit here with Watson and wait while Mrs. Hudson take over from here, seeing as how she probably won't appreciate having two grown men gawk at her while she's so exposed and vulnerable.

Instead, I sit in the living room and pluck my violin strings, fixated on my own thoughts.

His career has been an extraordinary one. He is a man of good birth and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue. On the strength of it he won the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller universities, and had, to all appearances, a most brilliant career before him. But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers. Dark rumors gathered round him in the university town, and eventually he was compelled to resign his chair and to come down to London, where he set up as an army coach. So much is known to the world, but what I am telling you now is what I have myself discovered.

For years past I have continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law, and throws its shield over the wrong-doer. Again and again in cases of the most varying sorts—forgery cases, robberies, murders—I have felt the presence of this force, and I have deduced its action in many of those undiscovered crimes in which I have not been personally consulted. For years I have endeavored to break through the veil which shrouded it, and at last the time came when I seized my thread and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings, to ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.

The man pervades across the continent, posing as this brilliant scholar to throw people off, and though he certainly has the mind to prove it, as far as I know, that's what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. I tell you, in all seriousness, that if I can beat that man, if I could free society of him, I shall feel that my own career has reached its summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life.

Between ourselves and Watson, the recent cases in which I have been of assistance to the royal family of Scandinavia, and to the French republic, have left me in such a position that I can continue to live in the quiet fashion which is most congenial to me, and to concentrate my attention upon my chemical researches. But I cannot rest, dear reader, I cannot not sit quiet in my chair, if I believe that such a man as Professor Moriarty is walking the streets of London unchallenged.

"He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson," I say, continuing to pluck at my violin strings as the doctor enters the room. "He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized."

"It is inevitable destruction. You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realize. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot," he replies, sitting down in the armchair beside mine. "You're putting yourself in danger."

"Danger is part of my trade," I remark, habitually fiddling with the top collar button of my shirt, and seeing his smile puts me somewhat more at ease.

"So Miss Adler will be staying here for the night?" He says. "Shall I stay here in case she gets worse in the night?"

"No, my friend, you have done quite enough for me," I reply, setting my violin down and rubbing my hand across my tired face, "Mrs. Hudson and I have it all sorted. We will send for you-"

"What kind of doctor would I be if I just abandoned my patient when something serious could happen, Holmes? Just because she's stable now, she could take a fever in the night and I want to be able to help her as quickly as possible."

"Very well." It is in vain that I asked Watson to go home for the evening. It is evident to me that although there is a chance that Irene will be perfectly fine and there's nothing to worry about, he thinks that it's in the best interest of his patient and myself if he stays. He might know that I'm anxious about this whole ordeal and wants to be here for me, too. With a few hurried words as to our plans for the evening - I will keep the first watch while Watson gets some rest, and then vice versa - he rises from the chair to send a quick telegram to Mary, and then goes into the guest room, where I hear the door close.

All I can do is sit, watch, and hope for the best.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think some clarification is in order; Just so you all know, I will be putting memories or flashbacks in either past tense, that way we (and I) won't get mixed up between what's happening now and what happened already. 
> 
> And after watching A Game of Shadows for the first (billionth) time, I googled what the word "gnoshing" meant because in the one scene where John was accused of "gnoshing on Mary's muffins," and it basically means to noisily chomp on something. So either he gobbles them down or they're really crunchy muffins! Haha!

I don't know how much time has passed when I finally regain consciousness again; though most of my sleep has involved slipping in and out of consciousness, and at one point, I am convinced that I heard Sherlock speaking to me, or that I felt his hand on mine, but I dismiss them as dreams; When I finally come to, the first question that comes to mind is, where am I now? All I know is that I am not in the alley anymore and I'm not wearing the same clothes I was wearing yesterday; I look around, seeing the mess that is the detective's room and try to figure out how I got here and how long I was out. 

The last thing I remember is walking out of the restaurant after meeting with Professor Moriarty and then fainting; at first I thought that there really was some dreadful poison in the tea that I'd drank, but he mentioned that killing me would be too quick and not as enjoyable for him as say, allowing me to suffer and continue running away. He enjoys the thrill of the chase, he triumphs over finding ways to manipulate people into doing what he wants. 

_Has he had more employees besides myself who had not been so fortunate?_

_Am I just a replacement?_

_What if he really does intend on killing me, but in a more gruesome way?_

All of these thoughts are too much to handle right now and I think that maybe if I get up and move around, I won't feel so lightheaded and weak, then again, this bed, whoever it belongs to, is too comfortable. 

When I open the door, I hear the front door opening and shutting loudly and see a Bulldog coming up the stairs, meaning that Doctor Watson must have been taking him for his morning walk; You might not know this about me, either, but I used to spend time with a lot of dogs in the alley when I was growing up; and since then, I've been more of a dog person than a people person. I kneel down so that he can sniff my hand and once I get permission, I pet him.

"Ah, Miss Adler, I see that you're finally awake," says Doctor Watson with a kind smile. "I was just coming upstairs to check on you, but I'm glad to see that you're up and moving."

"How long was I out?" 

"You've been out of it since Tuesday, that's when Holmes found you, speaking of which, Is Holmes around? I must leave for my Stag Party any minute." 

"I'm not sure, I've only just woken up." The doctor's words come back to me and I think about our scheduled dinner at the Savoy and how we were to discuss the importance of the letter that I was supposed to deliver, but due to unforeseen circumstances that had nothing whatsoever to do with my brilliant companion, that task was incomplete. 

"Was he worried at all when he found me?" I start to ask, but he's already too far down the hallway to hear me, so I decide to drop the matter for now. 

"Holmes, are you in there?" Watson says, knocking on the wood; he doesn't get a response and places a hand on the knob, twisting it until the door opens and we are greeting by large leaves. "Your hedge needs trimming."

I chuckle lightly and we push our way past the leaves; Over the years that I've known him, I've seen Sherlock Holmes do some bizarre things, and upon meeting him, one might start to question his sanity; yet I know for certain that he always has a good reason for it. However, it's unclear as to why he has turned the flat into his own private jungle, filled with exotic birds and even a goat. And don't get me started on that snake he has kept away in one of the trees he's managed to bring in. 

If that's one thing I am terrified of, it's snakes; of course, I can admire them from a distance - a very far distance - as long as they're not within mere inches from my face or the rest of my body, however, if they are too close for comfort, then you shall expect me to take off running in the opposite direction at unimaginable speed and leave anyone who is with me in the dust. 

"Remember, I have to catch the last.." Watson doesn't get to finish, an arrow flies past me and hits him square on the shoulder. "Train."

"Oh! Oh that's you there I'm afraid."

"You win, I lose, Game over," he says, sitting down and opening the paper, as another arrow flies through it.

"Still don't see me?" He finally comes out from his hiding place and removes the hood, revealing himself. "What a surprise. Ah, Irene, I see that you're finally awake," he grins, and I weakly smile back at him.

"What are you wearing?" I ask, seeing how he managed to blend himself perfectly with the walls. 

"I'm not going out with you dressed like that," Watson replies flatly.

"Would you prefer I joined you in the fashion folk pathway and fine military dress with that Hedonist hand-made scarf? Clearly, One of your fiancée's early efforts." He counters back in slight disgust.

"Oh, How I've missed you, Holmes," Watson sighs sarcastically.

"Have you? Why? I've Barely of noticed your absence. Then again I'm knee deep in research. Extracting fluids from the adrenal glands of sheep." He gestures to the scenery all around us, and then to his clothes, which look like they're made out of drapes. "And...Designing my own urban camouflage. All the while verging on a decisive breakthrough in the single most important case of my career. Perhaps of all time."

"Mrs. Hudson, how are you?" I turn to see the landlady carrying a tea tray covering an object.

"Oh, So pleased to see you, Doctor. Thank you for inviting me tomorrow," she says with so much relief on her face, it is almost alarming.

"And thank you for looking after Gladstone," Watson replies as he rises from his chair, watching with worry as his companion slowly strides over to Mrs. Hudson

"Dear, Dear, Simply sweet nanny. Might I have a word?" He yanks the cloth off the tray to reveal a glass containing four white mice. "Yummy. Feed the snake woman."

"You feed it!" she hands the tray to Sherlock who just shrugs and walks away, then she takes my hand and tries to tame her fiery eyes. "I'm telling you he's gone mad!" she huffs out. "This has gone too far. Doctor, you must get him to a sanatorium. He's been on a diet of coffee, tobacco and cocoa leaves."

"That does sound concerning," I say. "

"You don't know the half of it, dear. He never sleeps. I hear multiple voices, as if he's rehearsing a play."

"Leave him to me," Watson says reassuringly.

Suddenly, Sherlock pops up from behind her. "Don't you have a goat that needs worming?"

"Oh! how kind of you to remind me," she nods, and the poor woman smiles as if she's so close to losing her sanity, and honestly, I can't say that I blame her. "So much to look forward to. What I would do without you?" As she walks away, she shouts, "Good luck with your patient, Doctor."

I'm positive that by the way she says this, she's not talking about me.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asks, turning around to face Watson. "You're here to check on Irene, aren't you?"

"Well, she seems to be doing alright, no thanks to you. Actually, I'm getting married. Tomorrow," Watson replies and he stares at him for a moment, blinking a few times.

"Oh, embrace me!" He wraps his arms around Watson and then looks over at me. "Watson's getting married."

"I know," I smile.

"You lost a few pounds." Watson flinches as the arrow is removed from his shoulder and I flinch at his reaction; he certainly has dealt with his fair share of arrows and bullets while assisting the consulting detective, and he seems to be so desensitized by it that it doesn't really bother him too much. 

"And you picked them up, _gnoshing_ on Mary's muffins no doubt. Pour us a brandy." He walks away and Watson and I glance at each other, both rolling our eyes in unison. "The stag party has begun. It's our last adventure Watson.. I intend to make the most of it.

"I see you've made good use of my old office."

"Do you like my spider's web. Follow that strand."

Watson walks over to the wall and runs looks over the newspaper clippings and runs his finger along a red ribbon.

"Question? What does a scandal about an intern cotton tycoon, the overdose of a Chinese opium trader, bombings in Strasbourg and Vienna, and the death of a steel magnate in America all have in common?" Sherlock asks from behind a curtain where I assume he's changing clothes. 

"Well, according to your diorama. Professor James Moriarty." I look closer. Hanging on the wall, is a web of crimes, all of them linked to Professor Moriarty; just looking at it makes my heart crumble into pure dust. My whole body begins shuddering inside of itself. Somehow it all comes back to me; the more I stare into his black and white face, the more menacing his eyes seem to be. The red lines that rush towards him entangle him in his own web, the perfect metaphor.

"Indeed."

"Mathematical genius, Celebrated author and lecturer. Boxing champion in Cambridge. Where he made friends with our current Prime Minister. Do you have any evidence to substantiate your claim?"

"This," Sherlock smiles, stepping out from behind the curtain wearing a loose white shirt, and black trousers, then taps one article that stands out from all the rest.

"Dr. Hoffmanstahl's Death?"

"Yes, I've heard you speak of him. Extolling his virtues."

"Hoffmanstahl was at the forefront of medical innovations... a true pioneer."

"Just the other day, I averted an explosion that was intended for him."

I cannot help but feel personally responsible for what happened, and why shouldn't I? I am the one who was sent to put the bomb in the auction room; but luckily, as far as I know, no one was hurt, except a few precious centuries-old artifacts that suffered a bit of reparable damage, nothing to worry about. Better that be destroyed than a human life. 

"It says here he died of heart attack," Watson shrugs and Sherlock turns to him in disbelief.

"Has all my instruction been for not? You still read the official statement and believe it? It's a game, Dear man, A shadowy game. We're playing cat and mouse, the professor and I. Cloak and dagger."

"I thought it was spider and fly." Watson furrows his eyebrows as Sherlock picks up a glass.

"I'm not a fly," he remarks, "I'm a cat."

"Not a mouse, but a dagger." Reaching down to pick up the bottle and reading the label, I frown. "Sherlock? Do you have any idea that you're drinking embalming fluid?" Watson nods and I snatch the glass away from him, much to his surprise.

"Oh, Yes," he breathes out. "Care for a drop?"

"You do seem maniac, verging on psychotic; Mrs. Hudson is right, I should've brought you a sedative."

"I'll give my life to see his demise. He must be stopped, Before his evil machinations come to a crescendo."

"No, I can't let you give your life for a case, trust me, you cannot win this one unless you've got a death wish," I blurt out involuntarily and I squeeze my eyes shut. The thought of anything happening to him makes me feel helpless, more than I already feel right now. I close my eyes and shake my head, running into another room, trying to pull myself together. The room begins to spin around me. My heart pounds wildly. There is a dreadful pain in my chest. Sweat covers my palms. Blackness is taking over my eyesight and I feel myself tumbling a bit into the fireplace. My fingers gripped the edge of the mantel, where I stay for a minute. I press my forehead into the wood and shut my eyes, trying to concentrate on gathering my thoughts and bringing my breathing back to normal, but I am trapped inside my own mind, and blackness and pain roll over me in thunderous waves.

_No, Irene, you can't do this. You can't depend on anyone else but yourself. You know how you got like this in the first place, don't you? Your parents never wanted you, all the other children avoided playing with you because you were different. Men only chased after you for your looks? Why would it be any different now?_

_And think of all you've done to hurt him, he doesn't trust you, you know that_ _Sherlock can't ever be with you. As long as you're alive, he's in danger. Do yourself and him a favour and disappear, you're good at that._

_It's the best way that you can keep him safe. If anything happens to him, it'll be your fault._

I can hear my most inner thoughts be spoken out loud, echoing in my ears.

_Remember when we fell? Don't you wish you could have landed in the water instead?_

My mind tricks me into thinking that I am on the same bridge where I fought off Lord Blackwood, or attempted to more like; I feel more tears slipping down my cheeks and my breath comes out in ragged gasps, I don't want to be here. 

_And now, because he interfered with Moriarty's plans, he's going to die, and there will be no one left to care for you._

I hear someone's voice and feel two hands on my shoulders, but it's fuzzy and my ears are ringing, I can't figure out who they are or what they're saying. I don't fight them off, though. Whatever I have coming to be, be it arrest or death, I will take it.

_Your job was to manipulate Holmes' feelings for you. Not succumb to them._

It's not my voice speaking anymore, but someone much, much worse.

_You have fulfilled nothing._

His face is creeping into my mind. The sinister smile, those predatory eyes as he kneels down in front of me and whispers cruel things to me.

"Get out of my head!" I scream, rattling the cuffs, trying to get them off my wrists, but it's no use.

_Finish the job, or the next dead body will be Sherlock Holmes._

"Let go of me!" I cry out, trying to snatch my hands away, but the grip on my shoulders tighten and this time, I find a little strength to fight him off. I am able to move my hands and I reach down for the dagger that I've kept at my side this whole time and take it into my hand, its shiny blade looks so tempting right now.

_Do it, you can save his life if you simply remove yourself from the equation._

I could do it, it would be just like in Romeo and Juliet, only just the one of us would die, but just as I'm about to perform this lethal and reckless act, thunder cracks and the voices fade away, then I snap back into reality. I am on my knees, my chest is on fire and I'm struggling for air. I still feel someone's hands on my shoulders, but their touch is gentle.

My eyelids snap open and I see Doctor Watson, Sherlock and Gladstone gathered around me. My throat hurts, like I really have been screaming and I wasn't just screaming in my nightmare, or whatever that was. There is no dagger in sight, I must have imagined it. My lower lip quivers, so I bite down on it to keep it still.

_No, you cannot show weakness!_

"She's had an anxiety attack," Doctor Watson says, standing up hurriedly, "bring her over to the chair so she can sit down, I will ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare some tea, that should help her relax a little." 

"Sherlock?" I whisper, finding no strength in my voice. I try holding back the tears that seem to swell like the pulse within my ears. My voice cracks, and then falters. I know its shakiness gave away too much.

"Calm down, Irene, you're safe now," he hushes me in a comforting tone; none that I had ever expected could come from a man who never seemed to show any sympathy or pity. He squeezed my trembling hand within his own before taking the other to wipe a strand of hair out of my face. "I can assure you that no one can harm you here."

"Stop it!" I hoarsely croak, wishing for more power in my voice, not a ghost of sound. "Do not treat me as some helpless damsel who cannot care for herself. I am not a child anymore!" With a stupid and futile attempt, I try to pull away from him and he stares at me with an odd expression I have only seen him wear once or twice, firmly holding onto my wrists. "Irene—"

"I can't do this anymore." I whisper, my voice weak. "I never meant for any of this to happen. But it's not your responsibility. You cannot protect me from this storm! I got myself into this, and it only seems fair that I should get out of this myself!" My chest begins to heave from the emotions I've been trying to keep on a tight leash, and the next thing I know, I'm on my knees, sobbing. "I can't lose you, too. I'm not going to let you do this to yourself," I protest, gently brushing his hands away. "If you allow me in, it's just another weapon Moriarty has against you. He probably knows I'm here and I know he's not going to let me get away that easily. He will come, Sherlock. He'll come and kill us both."

We don't move from our spot on the floor, we just sit there; I place my hand on the head of the tiger-skin rug, stroking it as if it were still alive and wondering what his life was like before hunters or traders managed to find him and take away his life. His fate seemed as grim as mine appears to be now. 

"I won't let him harm you, either." Sherlock mutters. A hand, hardly delicate in its size, yet seemingly highly trained, touches lightly upon my shoulder. With the back of his other hand, he brushes away a single tear and brings one of his hands up to stroke my hair and it works. I inhale deeply, then let it out, repeating the process until I can feel myself calming down, but the tears still continue to roll down my cheeks. He holds me like I am a child, kisses the top of my head, and continues to reassure me. I can't remember the last time I felt so safe with someone else.

I look up at him and smile sadly; he's saying the exact words that I said to him the day we were at The Grand. His fingertips gently move from my shoulder to my collarbone, and the frigid fire raging inside me, dies down slightly; Something feels too familiar about the way he treats me like a delicate butterfly whose wings have been torn. "Watson is with Mary now and as for me, I can protect myself, and I can protect you." I sniffle pathetically, "We can protect each other." He silently slips his hand in mine and for a second, it seems that all of my anxiety is lifted away. My fingers tighten around his warm skin, trying to find and provide comfort in any way possible. I can feel Sherlock's eyes fixated on me, but I cannot bring myself to look back.

His other hand now moves to my other shoulder, sending ripples of warmth down my body. I risk a glance into his beautiful brown eyes that are filled with the same empathy that I'd seen when I was a little girl and my mother would look at me. 

"Why is he doing all of this?" I ask no one in particular.

"It's difficult to understand why powerful people do bad things." His words are laced with a brutal honesty, "or why good people make bad choices, but-" 

"Yes, I know that, but I mean why are you helping me?"

Sherlock doesn't meet my eyes, but stands up again, helping me to do the same, then leads me over to his chair where I stare into the fire. "Well, as I recall, you once saved me from a row in the middle of the street, I only thought that I should return the favor."

"Technically that doesn't count, you weren't really hurt." His chest rumbles slightly as he chuckles, distancing himself a little from me as the door opens. 

"Mrs. Hudson is bringing up some tea for you," says Watson softly, coming back and hurrying over to me. "Then you should get some rest."

"Here you are," she says, handing me a cup and my quivering hands still after closing around the warm china, but the weight of it continues to make it shake as I brought it off the tray. After much effort, it rises to my chapped lips. I let the warm steam soak into my skin, the smell of honey blocking the rest. His mouth curls into a small smirk at the sight of tea running down my chin. He brings a thumb up to wipe it away.

"I wanted to thank you both for saving my life," I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. "I didn't deserve it after all I've done to you."

"Let's not dwell on the past just now," he says, and Doctor Watson clears his throat.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, placing a hand on my forehead. "You're looking much better."

"Don't waste time attending to me, you should be going to your Stag Party." 

"She's right, Watson. This is going to be your last day as an unmarried man, we must make the most of it. As for you, Irene, I think it's best if you stay here."

"Well, obviously. The Diogenes Club is for men only, and as you can see, I'm a woman."

"That's exactly one of the reasons why it's important that you stay here. The second is, as much as I wish you could come with me, I'm afraid I must decline. It would put you in too much danger, and I can't risk you running away again when you're in such a fragile state," he says with a heavy sigh, "Don't worry, though. I'm sure by tomorrow you will be well enough to leave."

_After all of that, he still thinks I'm on that monster's side? I know he expects me to run away, but it's not as if I can do it right now._

Brushing it off with a hand, I stand up off the floor and pretend that it doesn't bother me. Truthfully, this fact annoys me more than anything; I have always been one to play games, as long as I was only on top. Though now, I have no choice if I wanted out, and right now, the top is certainly not where I am heading.

"Fine, if you insist, I will stay here, maybe clean out your flat. I'm sure, Mrs. Hudson will appreciate that."

"I know she will," Watson laughs. "What do you say, Holmes? Do you think she can handle it?" 

He shrugs, as if he doesn't really care one way or the other. "Yes, yes, well you can do anything you please." He grumbles, I know how he feels about people touching his things and putting them where they actually belong versus where he thinks they do. The tears are drying on my cheeks and a smile flickers onto my face at his reaction, and he continues to mumble as he leaves to tend to his wild animals.

* * *

Somewhere deep in the jungles of 221B Baker Street, a white goat lets out a little sneeze; he's not too pleased about the deworming process he's just gone through; Mrs. Hudson had such a hard time with it, even with me helping her as best I could, for something so small, he's got a lot of strength and the unfathomable need to ram his tiny horns against us. Both of our displeasure and frustration have been repeatedly confirmed by a few hot-tempered curses and equally unhappy bleats from the third member of the party. 

"Look, we're just as thrilled about this as you are," I say to him sympathetically, as he rubs his fluffy bottom on the carpet; at least we gave him a bath afterwards or else it would have left a stain. "but it had to be done, and you must admit that you feel better now."

"I just spent half of the other day cleaning that carpet," Mrs. Hudson exhales bitterly and I can't say that I blame her for being irritable when it comes to matters of her famous tenant. "I am thankful that the little goat has been cleaned, else I would have to toss it away." 

"The goat or the carpet?" I ask, smiling and she gives me a look that tells me not to test her patience any further. 

"Both; though I am mainly concerned about the goat, I hope we can get him out of the house before tonight." The goat's ears perk up as if he knows we're talking about him and he looks toward us innocently and this makes Mrs. Hudson smile a bit in spite of the turmoil we'd just endured. "Don't worry, little one, you can stay here for now until your owner comes to take you home." 

and he trots over to the window and he watches the people outside passing him and the children giggling, making silly faces and pointing to him. As unwise at it may be to leave him down here where things could easily be knocked over or in the normal case regarding goats, eaten - believe me when I tell you that they will eat anything and everything they can manage to fit in their tiny mouths, he even tried to nibble on Mrs. Hudson's sweater, and a bar of soap! - he seems to be content enough to just look out the window while I am busy upstairs.

Certainly, he will not be able to stay here, though; he will have to go back to wherever he came from, wherever that may be, but I hope it's too a good place.

"Next time you decide to get a goat," I say to Sherlock, as I open the door to his room, putting my hands on my hips, "Make sure he's wormed before you bring him home, or better yet, do it yourself." Noticing the empty tray in his hands, I shudder. The mice are no longer there and I can only imagine where they went. "In case you haven't noticed, I excelled in the field of Performing Arts, not Veterinary Medicine, and poor Mrs. Hudson has enough to be bothered with around here without getting involved in your crazy experiments."

Fiddling with the buttons on his jacket, he keeps his back turned to me. "These so called 'crazy' experiments are vital to helping me solve these cases; you of all people should know that we must sometimes go to great lengths to get the results we want, isn't that so?" he notes, nodding to my hand. I cannot keep my mind off that spot on my left ring finger where the weight of a diamond ring once sat, and now my hand simply feels a little too light for my liking. Admittedly, I adored the attention lavished upon her by her admirers. I was a prize that any man would fight over to win, and there is nothing more I could ask for, but married life just doesn't suit me.

"You have a point there, but you know quite well what I mean." 

"Since we have a moment to spare, perhaps you won't mind telling me exactly what you were up to before all this began." Reaching over the armchair to a table behind, he knocked several books to the carpet before returning to sitting, violin in hand. With a flourish, he flips his bow to point several inches from my face. I swat it away and then sit down in the chair beside him.

"I was delivering this and that, whatever he needed me to," I answer as nonchalantly as I can, keeping my gaze steady and unwavering. 

"You're hiding it Irene."

"Does that surprise you?" My eyes shift away from his gaze at the sound of something falling and I naturally think that the goat must have knocked something over, though Sherlock brings the bow to push my face back to his direction. I search for an easy escape from this question, just as I do with everything else. I finally land on the question that truly puzzles me, and decided on asking it, "If you don't trust me, then why am I here?"

Studying my face for a moment, he then turns his attention back to the instrument, playing a short set of notes before looking at me once again. "Perhaps because your fear of Moriarty has seemed to be far too great to show you're afraid of leaving your position with him... It could be because I doubt you won't return to him because he's threatened your life and you wish not to die, but then who does, and so as soon as you're set free, you will run off and start the whole thing over again. That seems to be the recurring theme, doesn't it?"

"If you thought that way, then why did you bother save me in the first place? You could have just left me in the alley, you know, it would have been done and over with!"

"You think I would rather have let you die?" He replies, slightly offended by the statement, "Believe me, you wouldn't be much use to anyone dead, now would you?"

His last words sting, I decide on not replying.

"No. I could've predicted that much." Sherlock's hand dives into the pocket upon his waist coat, he holds up a folded piece of parchment and twirls it within his fingers, "Now, if I were to read this—which I assure you I haven't—then would it say the same thing? Seems as if it's from the Professor himself and you should have nothing to hide."

"Give it back!" I reach for it, in no mood for such childishness, but he holds it out of my grasp, then places it back in his pocket.

"On second thought, we will save it for another, more convenient time." He brings the bow across; the sound is one of pure unpleasantry, it resembles the sound of fingernails scratching against a chalkboard. The turkey vulture doesn't appreciate the playing, either. He makes a very distressed sound of his own and the other animals join in the symphony. It is three o'clock in the afternoon, and it is nearly spring time, yet London is bleak and dreary as always.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yip, yip! Chapter 5 is up and ready to be read my fellow Sherlockians! And yay! Simza gets to make her grand entrance now! Is it wrong that I find all the ladies in the movies sooooo GORGEOUS!? I mean, kudos to those casting directors for making me have three girl crushes at once! And not to mention that Jude Law makes the PERFECT John Watson! And don't even get me started on my little (big) crush on RDJ as Sherlock Holmes. *swoons*

As promised, once the animals have been sent away, I spend a majority of the afternoon organizing and dusting Sherlock's room while he and Watson are finishing getting ready to go to the Stag Party; apparently Watson left his formal clothes here by accident; Cleaning is the only thing that keeps me from going insane from worrying about what could happen to them. I guess Mrs. Holmes passed that down to me; she was always cleaning when she was anxious about something. Just being away from Sherlock makes my stomach drop to the floor. It's as if I physically cannot survive unless he's holding me in his arms. I don't like this new dependency, it goes against my rules that I've set for myself.

Although Sherlock and I are at peace for the moment, he doesn't trust me, that I'm certain of, which is why he wants me to stay here under Mrs. Hudson's watchful eye. Watson is wary of me as well, I can see it in the way they both avert their eyes and in the indifferent tone we've been exchanging since I've recovered from my panicked state. Chances are, once I'm well, he will send me back to the authorities; the capture of his precious jewel thief would insure his last month's rent, and whatever other things he and Watson want to spend the money on.

Vulnerability. Insecurity. They're a new set of emotions for me; it means is a weakness that I don't want to be exposed, and mistrust is something I've felt my entire life towards everyone I've met, but as much as I wish that I could just run away, maybe it's best if I stick around a while.

I come across the notes that he's taken on some sort of dart, and I can only imagine who it belongs to or who authorized it to be used in the first place. My guess is that whoever the target was knew something about Moriarty's plans. Then again, how could I know? He never told me anything. Not that I ever expected him to, of course, with me being his eyes, ears and well, whatever else a spy needs to be, and telling me his plans was apparently not in his contract. I think back to when he told Watson about Dr. Hoffmanstahl's death; this must have been how he died, a dart to the leg, obviously the poison works instantaneously because no one even heard him scream.

Setting me free does not mean that Moriarty is not plotting to get rid of me. I overheard him and some other man talking just the other day at the restaurant, and whatever plot they had devised, it would have been outlandish. Sighing, I glance at the ladder ahead of me and climb up to the shelf, slowly taking the duster and sweeping the cobwebs and dust away.

Everything appears to be in order; Gladstone is asleep by the fireplace; I didn't know that someone so small could snore so loudly, I blame it on that squished-in face of his. Watson comes out of the room and I quickly sneak in to the bedroom, which is in no better shape, but it should only take a minute to clean. I just have a feeling that something's going to go wrong, but maybe I'm just being paranoid, not used to being able to let my guard down for long; but nonetheless I'm also trying to come up with a good plan. Of course I'm not going to stay here and do nothing when Sherlock could be in danger; suddenly, an idea comes to my mind. Going into the closet that I just cleaned, I find a white button-up shirt that I must have left here by mistake one day. And no, it's not for the reasons that you might think so don't be getting any ideas!

Putting it to the side, I find one that's button-down, which is more fitting for the occasion, a spare pair of black trousers, a fake mustache which I found just lying around, and a hat. The clock says that it's almost a quarter past eight, which means it's almost time for phase two of the plan. When Mrs. Hudson comes to alert the men that the carriage is ready, I quickly scoop everything up, put it in a basket already filled with clothes that are much too small for him - trust me, I would know - and then lift it up into my arms.

"This place hasn't looked this clean in ten years," she says, almost laughing.

"Ten years? That's how long those two have been living here?" I shut the door to the room, hearing it click and blow a hanging piece of hair out of my face.

"You should have been here when I found thumbs in the ice box."

"Thumbs?!" I exclaim, "How have you put up with it for this long?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, every time I come in here, there's always this new gizmo or gadget that he's brought home and needs to be put away, or once in a while, a new severed body part that he needs to examine, but then I realize that without him, this place is too quiet and too dull."

"You really think no one is going to stare at us?" I hear Watson mutter from the corner of the living room.

"Stare?" Sherlock scoffs. "Of course they're not going to stare. Ah, this room looks so much nicer than it did ten minutes ago."

"It would always look this nice if you just put some time aside and cleaned it," Watson laughs.

I sneak past them and approach the vehicle that we are going to take and frown, they call it a motor carriage; one that doesn't have to be operated by horses, My thoughts were not long dwelled upon as Watson and Sherlock quickly walked my way. I wait for them both to climb into it before holding onto the edge, just like me and the Silent Ninjas used to do all the time when I was young.

"Will your beard be with us all night?" Watson sketchily glances at Sherlock from the opposite seat.

"I'll remove it once we're south of Trafalgar's square."

Watson angrily squeezes a strange, rubber thing on the front to warn people that they were in his way. I think it might have been a duck, but when I peek over the edge, it looks like a small balloon.

"If you believe Moriarty has you under observation, isn't this a bit conspicuous?" I silently agree with the doctor's finely put theories.

"It's so overt…" Sherlock assures. "… it's covert."

_I don't doubt that._

"Trafalgar's Square," Watson sighed heavily as we pass the manmade lions. "You must be safe by now." Sherlock pulls at his beard, but his goggles still made him look funny.

"Why are you looking at me with such concern?" Watson asks, seeing his lingering gaze.

"I'm so very worried," his friend replies. "Your vitality's been drained from you." Watson's face twists into a look of confusion. He was going to go to a stag party! How much more vitality did you need? "Marriage is the end, I tell you!"

"I think of it as the beginning," Watson defends. His knuckles grip the wheel even tighter.

"Armageddon."

"Rebirth."

"Restriction."

"Structure."

"Answering to a woman!?"

_I swear, I'm going to crawl up there and smack him myself._

"Being in a relationship. A life in matrimony; the possibility of a family. Who wants to die alone?"

"So, we'll have a good old fashioned romp tonight… you'll settle down and have a family, and I'll…" Sherlock struggles to get his words out. "…die alone."

"Yes, That's about it," Watson mutters and then stops the car, and I know that I had to make a run for it before the whole plan fell to pieces. Silently and abruptly, I hop down and skitter around to the back of the building. I press my back against a stone wall, close my eyes and let an exaggerated sigh escape my lips. Puffs of smoke surround the sky around me as my cold breath turns to mist.

Let's just hope I can get in so that I can change; I am about to go inside when I see another woman running in, my best guess is that she's probably one of the entertainers that work here. I suppose I didn't need to bring these anyway, surely they must have extra costumes, I can sneak in and borrow one and once I have all my hair and makeup done, no one will suspect a thing.

My plan is set, I am ready, but there's just one problem, there is one - no, two - waiters outside, laughing loudly and smoking cigars. Nothing I can't handle, of course. I take a breath, reminding myself that I only need to get inside. Their glances shift over to me and his expression changes as one of their eyes trail over me, almost suggestively, he smiles.

"And what is a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"It's none of your business, really. Client confidentiality and all, but if you really must know, I am part of the entertainment," I give him a somewhat dark look, "And if you'd like to keep that handsome face of yours, I suggest you move aside." The waiter is surprised by the sudden change in my nature, but he looks to the shyer, more quiet one, who nods, as if knowing better than to question me, then they both step aside, allowing me to pass.

I smile charmingly and apologetically at them and go inside, greeted by the cheerful atmosphere.

The place is filled with men, both young and old, some drinking, others smoking, a few at a gaming table, recklessly gambling their hard-earned money away. I glance at a young man with black hair and a blond man dancing to the music in a small corner of the room, and regarding each other in a way that closely resembles affection, something that, in a perfect world, would be accepted by all, but I admire the way they erase everyone else in the world to focus on each other.

Sherlock is standing and his glass was raised, giving Watson a toast, but the receiver looks as if he's bitten into a lemon. He's obviously discovered that the party has been a scam, and he is not taking it lightly. I watch as he silently rips money and a cigar away from Sherlock, pure anger and aggression written on his face, and stomps off to the gaming tables.

This is supposed to be the second most important night of his entire life, but now it's all gone to pot all because his friend had completely forgotten about it.

On the higher levels there are more elegant people. Some of the richer men mingle with the poorer down below, but most liked to dine and watch the entertainment above. Some even have their wives, or perhaps mistresses with them.

There are women dancing about and swinging above the tables and seeing them go back and forth makes me feel a little bit lightheaded. Those girls must have trained to be in the circus because of their high tolerance for being suspended upside down. I am certain that if I were there now, I would spill the contents of my stomach all over this table and that was not a pretty image and I'm sorry if I put it in your mind as you were reading this. Pretend that never happened.

I slip into the room, letting out another sigh of relief, thanking my lucky stars that no one else is in there besides me. Maybe it's not too late to wear these after all. I change out of my ladies' clothes and blow a stray piece of my hair out of my face. I highly doubt that I can cover the one distinguishable part of my figure, so I elect to ignore it and change anyways, but just as I am about to throw the clothes on, someone pushes the door open.

"There you are," she says, folding her arms across her chest crossly. "What are you still doing here when you're five minutes late?" I begin to explain my situation when she puts up a hand to interrupt me. "No excuses, be ready in five minutes."

_Well, this is brilliant._

Searching throughout the room, I find one of the dresses that I saw the other ladies wearing; it looks too short for me, but I put it on anyways and then attempt to pin my hair up and adjust it so it looks uniform to the others; I look into the dusty mirror covered in finger prints and lipstick stains and I almost laugh at how ridiculous I look, but a feeling of insecurity takes over the humor of it all. Showing my bare legs which are still covered in scars and bruises potentially to Sherlock, but seeing no use in hiding anymore, knowing I'll have to come out of the booth eventually. I am not sure what to do with Sherlock's clothes now, though, seeing as how I've brought for no apparent reason at all, I decide to carry them away with me so I don't end up losing them, and hope no one asks questions.

All I'm wearing is a thin blouse and a petticoat. "You can't seriously expect me to wear this! By rights I shouldn't even be here." I whimper to myself like a ninny, when really, it's not that hard to go up on a stage and wave feathers. Things would be considerably worse if I didn't know how to perform, but I hope that what I do know comes in handy.

The only thing I can do, is to play along, follow the other girls in their game of monkey see, monkey do, but what they're doing is watching men playing cards, or sitting with them, flirting. That's normally my strong point, but I'm worried that one of them will recognize me and alert the authorities that their prisoner has escaped. Hence, that is why I am just standing here not knowing what to do with myself.

"Oh, good, you're just in time!" One of the girls says, slurring and giggling. Her cheeks are rosey and there is a look in her hazel eyes that looks like she has had a bit too much to drink, but she's stable enough to stand. Maybe she's just happy to be here. I turn to see a pile of pink feathers in the corner and quickly take some in my arms.

Equally cheery faces of drunken men welcome me with lustful gazed as I make my way onto the wooden stage, force a glowing smile and with a flick of my wrist, the music starts and I am reminded of times long ago.

My other two companions come out shortly after me and sit on top of the long swing situated above the catwalk. Next thing I know, I'm singing along to the jazzy music. I actually feel myself enjoying it.

While I'm having the time of my life up here, I sigh in relief when I spot my friends straight ahead and focus on their conversation, but it's impossible to hear over the loud music and everyone shouting.

Without thinking, I make my way to the end of the platform and suddenly, the music changes to something more fast-paced and more ladies come onto the stage; one of them takes my place and I see my cue to get out of there while I still can.

As I arrive on the landing, I look over the balcony for a moment. Doctor Watson is balancing a card precariously on his face and his friends are rather amused, but I don't see Sherlock anywhere. My thoughts then drift to what is happening inside of the fortune room, thinking that he's in there speaking with the fortune teller. I am about to peek my head inside.

Three sounds catch my attention; A loud banging. Grunts. A cry. Is that the sound of someone fighting? Has the murderer already come into view?

Straight in front of me, a small man tumbles to the ground between the curtains. Other men and women are just coming down the hallway, but dash out at the first view of the Cossack. I let out an audible gasp. The man's eyes crack open at the sound of my voice. He rips off his jacket and tosses it aside, jumping onto his feet without the help of his hands. I want to pin him to the ground, but I cannot not find the stamina or the energy. He is gone just as quickly as he had come.

I scramble to my knees as I scoop up the vest of knives he left behind. If he doesn't have them, that is all the better. I stare down at the sparkling metal and the sharp blades are enough to make my stomach do flips.

Sherlock quickly retreats from outside of the curtain. His eyes catch mine with surprise. I can read them as clear as day. _What are you doing here? I told you to stay home._ No proper answer comes into my mind and all I can do is give him a shrug.

The woman beside me holds my entire captivation. Her long hair plummets in curls similar to mine. It's like a waterfall on her head, and I cannot help the little flutter my heart gives at the sight of her.

"Who are you?" she shouts, nearly pinning me against the wall. "Are you working for him?" She nods in the direction of the Cossack.

Sherlock steps between us and gently takes hold of her shoulders, trying to calm her down. "She's with me! She's not supposed to be here, but we have more important matters to attend to."

Her eyes are still suspicious of me, but I know she is probably just frightened, so I don't take offense. "Let's go before he gets away." She regards me once more and then the three of us rush down the hall.

The squeaky notes of Irish fiddles ring all around the pub. I immediately recognize the song that is being played, The song was 'The Congress Reel' and it contrasts to the sounds of people shouting, glasses breaking, and money falling all at once.

Like a fish swimming against the current, I push my way past the other men and women charging towards the stairs to get away from the Cossack, and when I finally reach the end of the hall, the girl looks bewilderingly at me, her eyes are drilling into my face: inspecting me, judging me, sizing me up. She is far too intimidating, but so am I, and then her eyes become only fixated on a nearby window.

_The window?_

"Sherlock!" I shout as I peer over the edge. He is at the very bottom, getting pulled at by a bunch of gamblers.

It's just like the boxing arena. Men are cheering and getting ready for a fight. My stomach feels weak just thinking about him getting hurt, but I know he can handle himself.

Except, he tosses a chicken towards the Cossack, unexpected, yes, but at least it allows for Sherlock to get away from the fight. "Your friend is a foolish man," the gypsy mutters with a disapproving shake of her head, and I shrug, not able to find a logical reason to disagree with her.

"He may be foolish, but trust me he knows what he's doing."

"Perhaps he was right about you not being here, Irene Adler," she continues, her eyes sparkling with fear and possibly a hint of amusement, I cannot tell, "but you've got a rebellious side, you love the thrill of adventure."

"You seem to know me very well. Might I ask who you are?"

"I am Madame Simza." Genuinely, I find her name to be as mysterious and pretty as she is, but I don't have too much time to dwell on that. "Why is your friend protecting me?"

"Because…" I say, softly. "The man who sent that murderer to kill you must be stopped at all costs."

"If he knows that the detective saved me, he will come after you, also, you know that, don't you?" I have to laugh, even though her words shake me to the core and in return, she gives me a puzzled look.

_Maybe I'm just as crazy as he is._

"He's already after me, so either way, it doesn't matter." She nods, either because she's too tired to say much more, or because her fear is preventing her from doing so, but I decide to leave her alone. After all, I can understand why she doesn't trust me. Hearing a loud sound, we snap back to the issue at hand. "We have to go, now!"

We begin to dash down the hallway once again, shoving past the frightened guests. Simza isn't wasting a minute for an opportunity to fight the man that tried to take her life, as we enter the backstage area, we have a second to spare, so I hand over the knives, she takes them and starts tossing them towards him. He gets the better of her with a sharp jab to the nose.

_That's my cue!_

Rushing over to help, I lunge at the man, but then he spins around and attempts to attack me, I see Sherlock rushing past me. His foot gives the Cossack a firm shove until he tumbles from a nearby window and into the Thames; I doubt he's dead, he just won't be able to come after us for a while. I breathe heavily as I'm gently pulled to my feet. Dusting my hands on my dress, I take a glance at Simza.

"You're right," she pants, bringing up a hand to her injured nose and since I'm not used to the sight of blood, at least not like this, I have to look away for a bit. "He did stink."

Laughing a little, I tell her that she's right, the Cossack did have some unfortunate body odor that he could have at least taken care of, maybe it would have made him less noticeable, or maybe Sherlock would have noticed him even if he did lather himself in some scented bath lotions, he's got the nose of a bloodhound. I lead her to a sofa to sit down, finding a supply of cloth-like material lying around. It'll do. "That's it, just keep your head back and pinch the bridge." She closes her eyes, her hands are a little bit shaky, but mine are, too.

Despite his struggle, his eyes swiftly glance from Watson, to Simza and to my feathery head. The expression on his face slowly morphs into a smile.

"Irene!" He turns to face me and clears his throat; he looks like he's about to start laughing; his eyes look from my face to my outfit. "You look…how do I put this nicely?"

"Horrible, I know, don't even get me started," I groan, too embarrassed to even allow him to continue speaking.

"So the two of you really are working together?" she asks, and I exchange one cloth for another.

"I suppose we are at the moment," Sherlock sighs, catching his own breath and looking at me. "I thought I told you to stay where you were."

"You did, but I thought it was boring, and you needed my help, so I came here. I hope you appreciate what I've sacrificed."

For the first time since I've arrived, he glances over at my outfit and nods in approval. "You should be used to it by now, Irene. It's just like the good old days."

"Hey!"

The interrupting voice takes us all by surprise and I turn to where I think it's coming from; sure enough Watson peeks his head from behind the curtain. He is as drunk as a sailor, and his face is swelling up from a fight downstairs. All I can do is think of how Mary will feel when he turns up at their wedding looking like he just came back from his war days.

"You can run, but you can't… Where's you?" His words are slurred as he stumbles onto the wooden floor. Sherlock's eyes are full of amusement at the foggy state of his friend. He spreads out his arms as though it was obvious. "Just had a fight!" His leg crosses lazily over the other until his whole body gets the better of him. We all watch with wide eyes as he tumbles into a pile of stage lights. Sherlock jumps forward to help him, but he is adamant that we stay away. "Just had a fight!" He repeats, pointing an angry finger in Sherlock's face. "Where were you?"

"I'm glad to see you taking your best man duties so seriously, Sherlock."

All of us crane our necks to the stairway, where Sherlock's brother, Mycroft stands with a filled champagne glass. His assistant, Carruthers stands naturally beside him. Clearly they are the only ones who haven't left the scene in terror yet.

"I was having problems of my own!" Watson screams as he falls from my arms. He lays on his flat back, shouting up at the sky in ferocity. "Not gonna get my monies! She was biting my leg!" He continues in aggravation.

Simza seems just as confused about this, but at least she's a bit more relaxed now because she smiles a little as Watson lets out a groan and abandons his head to my shoulder, seemingly in the pit of despair. All of the money that he bet is gone, and I'm almost afraid to ask how much he's lost; his friend had unintentionally forgotten about his stag party, and he is getting married the next day. He's certainly under a lot of stress right now so of course, I don't and can't blame him for the low point he's facing.

Mycroft, on the other hand, is less than pleased with the scene, being the mature older brother. "I'll have Carruthers put some fuel into that motor carriage of yours." His voice is loud and firm. "You do have a wedding to attend."

"Oh, I'll drive!" John's head peeks up excitedly from the floor. "Honk, honk!" He motions squeezing the vehicle's horn, sending us off into another whirlwind of laughter. "Let's have another drink!"

"Oh, no, I think you've had quite enough," Sherlock replies, going over to grab the letter and stuffs it into his pocket; my eyes shift towards him, but once he catches me staring, I look away. My hands scoop up Watson's torso. He falls onto me again without warning, too drunk to have any control of his reflexes.

"Let's get you into the carriage before anyone tells her what you've been up to."

"It's not like I can hide the marks on my face," Watson grumbles and gestures towards his features, smiling. "She always had a thing for rugged men."

Simza appears to have stopped bleeding for now, she stands up, wobbling a little from the loss of blood, but is quick to steady herself; she snatches a nearby cologne bottle from a backstage table and stands near us.

"No, but at least we can hide the smell." With one pump, she sprays a lavender mist into his ruddy face. He coughs and bats away the smell, like a cat swatting away a fly, but it's impossible to get completely away.


	6. Chapter 6

The vehicle is pumping its way along as the night sky begins to dwindle and the sun begins to greet us. John is fast asleep in the back, snoring as much as Gladstone, and I smile at the image. We've been riding in silence for the last little while.

Sherlock's mind is deep in thought as I distract myself by sketching the scenery on a random piece of paper I found lying around; my talent for art is pretty much nonexistent, I am never sure of the right colours to use or how to properly shade the shadows or make the clouds fluffy, so after a while, I sort of give up on it and setting the piece down, I just continue to look around. It had been a long time since I'd seen anything so serene. The sky is like a painting, an astounding shade of orange. It reminds me of the flowers I used to have in my bedroom at my aunt Eliza's, and Simza's skirt, and the autumn leaves, only it is much more picturesque than those things. It draws me in and sucks all of the breath from my lungs.

"Amazing sunrise, is it not?" Sherlock's soft tone fills my ears.

"It is a perfect day for a wedding," I say with a smile. "Clear as clear can be."

Even though he appears relaxed, to a well-trained eye, the symptoms of anxiety are all there, plain as day; his fingers scratch at his hair and his face, and he fidgets uncomfortably, his posture seems rigid and tense, and the breaths he is taking are uneven. We sit closely together in the front seat, and I spot a cut on his left cheek. It's dripping dried blood and will no doubt leave a scar. Bitter reminders of the cuts he received trying to save me back at the bridge crawl back into my mind.

"Sherlock, you're hurt."

"I'm fine. Watson is in worse shape than I." His lips draw into a tight line. I find my handkerchief and then go to reach for his face, but his hand grasps my wrist before I even graze his skin.

"Don't say that you're fine because you're not fine. Frustration and anger is written all over your face. And I know anxiety when I see it." I take a breath to keep my own frustration under control. "I know you want to push me away and suffer through this alone because you think it's better for you, and you want to pretend that everything is alright because you're Sherlock Holmes and you think that your life doesn't mean anything if it's sacrificed for the greater good, but it means something to me." Everything comes out rushed and sounds like a load of gibberish.

Clearly, my words are enough to stir him from his gloominess, because he sighs, rubbing his face again and his shoulders drop to a state of relaxation, but the fire doesn't leave his eyes.

"I know you told me to stay back home, but I didn't listen. I followed you anyway because I could sense that you were in danger, and I will admit that you were right, it was an imbecilic thing to do." I turn my face away and look down, fiddling with my hands. "Anyway, you don't have to tell me your plans, what with our shaky alliance. I trust you to do the right thing, you always do. I just wanted to prove that I could do the right thing, too." I scoff, wringing my hands.

"Don't make me out to seem like a hero, Miss Adler," he replies, "it's my job to help people, and to bring criminals to justice."

"Criminals like me?" I laugh, trying to find humor in this, but it sounds forced that even I don't find it convincing. "I should be in jail right now, but here I am, in the same place I've always been, running away from my problems like a coward and trying to work things out on my own instead of-"

"Irene, stop!" He says harshly and I'm taken aback by the tone that he's suddenly taken on, his face softens as does his voice.

"Every night, I would have nightmares about something happening to you; and I wake up thinking about that day on the bridge, I should have taken you in my arms and ran away with you while I had the chance." His voice is quiet as we turn down a country road outside of the city. The scene is beautiful with the sunrise, but Sherlock's words move me even more.

"I was terrified when I saw you freezing to death in the alley, when I thought I'd lost you forever. I could have stopped it, I could have saved you, thankfully we brought you home and Watson cleaned you up." He takes my hand into his and gently rolls up my sleeve. My eyes widen and I don't even try to yank my arm out of his grasp, he is staring at my angry red marks. His brows crease. I cannot speak, the proper response fails to come to me.

"I've heard the way you talk to yourself, saying such horrible things like how worthless and selfish you are and how the world would be so much better without you in it, but these scars tell me otherwise, you got this from saving a little girl from a burning building." He points to one of the marks on my shoulder, barely the size of a shilling and then to three large cuts on my arm. "These ones, you got for protecting a helpless stray dog from the butcher, he was scared that's why he scratched you, it's old, but still painful."

Finally, he points to a bruise on the side of my head. "and that one while helping me with a case. There is nothing cowardly about any of these scars or bruises. You're not worthless, selfish, or cowardly. Perhaps you were a criminal, and perhaps you have some ultimatum, a reason why you're here that has nothing to do with me at all, but in my eyes, you are and always have been a warrior."

"You shouldn't degrade yourself, either. You are a hero to so many people, you're brave, strong and I don't know what the world would be like without you in it." My voice trails off with a shake of my head. "You're everything to me."

My fingers pull at the handkerchief in my breast pocket, and I quietly begin to rub the blood away from his wound, this time he allows me to do it. It has been there for a while and is difficult to scrub off, but after a minute it looks very much improved.

"So, I wasn't dreaming about Watson placing me into a bathtub last night?" I hear him laughing beside me and I turn to smile at him.

"Believe me, I wanted to join you, but I didn't think you wanted an audience." He smiles back at me and this time, it's my turn to laugh, but then I hear a snore behind us and am reminded of another person's presence.

Watson is still cuddled under a blanket, sound asleep and I am glad of it, I can imagine he would be teasing us if he heard our brief little banter. We both revert back to our previous states, not saying anything at all, but for the time being, we seem to be on good terms. I feel something be placed into my lap and I stare down at it.

"Wear this, it will keep you from freezing again." I do not refuse to put on the jacket, and as soon as I stick my arms in the sleeves and give it a little shake, I am enveloped in warmth and his scent that I once found comforting.

Our bodies are so close that I can smell the small trace of alcohol on his lips. "I want to know what's going on," I whisper behind my red lips, not wanting to get distracted.

"You know that letter you were trying to steal? Well, that letter was a key factor in figuring out who the next target was. The letter was written by a Frenchman named Rene Heron. The note, as it still remains, is intended. It tells the girl to remember him as he was. It is affectionately written; the two were very close."

I nod. "If it's a letter from a brother to a sister, a mere note of affection, then what makes it so important? Why does Moriarty want it taken away from her? Maybe because he didn't want her to know something was wrong. If she knew her brother was in danger, she would have gone after him. And there is a specific expression that goes without saying: no loose ends," I mutter.

"Well done, Irene, you have gained considerable deductive powers of your own." Sherlock smiles and shoves the note back into his pocket.

"Is she still in danger?" He nods. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure." His voice is as low as mine, "but I'll figure something out."

* * *

"Come, come, darling. It's time to rise and shine." Sherlock's voice mutters in my ear what seems moments later. I can feel his strong grip on my arms as he attempts to haul me up. I mumble unintelligible words under my breath and bring the blanket higher up over my head; I am not moving from this spot until I'm ready to do so; I go limp so that there's no possible way he can lift me. I am as stiff as the man-made lions outside Trafalgar Square.

"You can call me 'darling' and 'sweet thing' or whatever else all you want, but I don't want to get up right now."

"You're not a morning person are you, dearest?" My eyes peek through a crack in the blanket and put on a sour frown, which I call the don't-wake-me-up-unless-someone-is-dying face and he chuckles. "Aha! I'll take that as a no."

"Really? I wonder how you could have possibly made that deduction!" The bright sun shines through my eyelids, making them look transparent, and as hard as I try to shield myself from its harmful rays, nothing helps, so ultimately, the only option I have left is to wake up. I open my eyes all the way and an awful sound that closely resembles a cat dying rings out into my ears; I turn to Sherlock who just looks at me, and I am this close to snapping and slapping that devious smirk right off his face.

"You're right, Sherlock, I'm not a morning person. And it just so happens that my ears are very sensitive this morning, in fact, everything seems to bother me more than usual today, one of the disadvantages of being a woman, I suppose." Yesterday is the day I found out that the day that women all over the world dread had come, and I feel very fortunate that I haven't ruined anything yet just by sitting on it, it seems that luck just isn't on my side these days.

Thankfully, he gets the gist without me having to go into all the nitty-gritty details and frankly, I'm sorry that you had to find out, too, dear reader, but unfortunately, this is part of life, too and whether we like it or not, we have to pull up our puffy skirts, grit our teeth and deal with it.

Soon the bagpipes have warmed up enough and change their tune to something more pleasant. With much relief, my hands go up past my ears and I try very hard to focus on fixing my loose curls, pinning them up so I don't look like such a wild woman.

Sherlock cracks a quick grin before offering me his hand and immediately, my sour mood changes. Of course, I am excited for the wedding, whether or not I've actually been invited. I hope Mary won't mind having me, she probably already knows all the things that I've done and it's embarrassing to think about, not only that, on these particular kinds of days, I feel much more comfortable lying down and resting the day away. Nevertheless, I will pull through, for Watson's sake, and it's not the worst I've felt; the dull contractions in my abdomen will fade soon.

Watson - actually I suppose I feel safe calling him John in writing - scrunches his nose and opens his eyes with his horrified expression on his face as he sees the men with bagpipes. He blinks a couple of times.

When I finally make my way onto solid ground, I get a better look at my companions. Sherlock's hair looks like someone had dropped a bomb upon it and dirt is plastered all over his face. I don't know if Mary is into rugged men, but I know I am. He looks as handsome as he always does. And, truth be told, John looks far worse. Mud covers his ear, his face is cut in several places, his sleeve has somehow managed to rip itself off, and nothing about his uniform makes him look like a veteran, but it makes him look like a soldier who's just walked through the battlefield.

Sherlock takes one of the doctor's hands, I take the other and we slowly, slowly make our way towards the front of the church. Guests will be arriving soon. We all have to make ourselves look presentable.

It is my responsibility to make sure that Mary doesn't see the state of her fiancé and to keep Watson from accidentally stumbling into her. I am not superstitious in any way, but the bride is under enough pressure as it is. The second we get into the church I go into the office rooms to find her. She is alone in her dressing room, and is surprised upon my arrival. Until she sees what I am wearing.

At first, she doesn't say anything and nothing about her face seems shocked, but her eyes shift from my bare feet, to my dress and then to my face. All I can offer her is a shrug. After a moment of hesitation, she let out a bewildered cry. "Irene, is that how you will be going to the wedding? Surely I cannot allow you to wear that!"

A look in the mirror is all the confirmation I need to see the atrocity that is my appearance: A girl with her hair too tightly pinned and wearing a sparkly, purple corset. I'm not wearing any proper bottoms, either, only skin-tight, white stockings. And don't even get me started on the makeup. I look similar to a circus clown than a show girl, only much more frightening. It's not a wonder why Simza gave me such an odd look yesterday.

How could he even want me to begin with when I'm dressed like this? While Mary, on the other hand, looks absolutely radiant.

She laughs and it sounds like the ring of little bells on the sled I used to ride with the Holmes boys.

"Fret not, I brought along a spare dress, one of my bridesmaids told me this morning that her little one came down with a dreadful cold and since I can't find a stand-in, I don't see the harm of you borrowing it."

"I appreciate it," I smile, embarrassed that I am probably about to ruin this poor woman's wedding for life.

"John's alright? He didn't have a rough night?"

_Rough doesn't even come close to fitting the description._

Chaotic would be a much better term, but as much as I don't wish to make her more anxious than she already is, I hate lying to her, even though I'm a natural at it, but if I can bend the truth just a little so that there are no secrets between the two of them, then I will do it.

"John is much better than he was last night. He's just a little bit nervous, that's all. It's his wedding day and he just wants everything to run smoothly. He gambled well, he knew not to risk more than was necessary. He made much more than he took in, but there were some complications." That being an attempted murderer and a fight to claim all of John's almost winnings. "But everything came through."

Taking note of the relief on her face, it is only when she begins to pace the room with silent fears that I get a better view of her. Pearly white lace dances up her neck in the elegant V-line dress. It's as if she was born to wear that dress. A pearl necklace graces her neck and there are little white flowers pinned in her hair. She tugs at a strand.

"What if something goes wrong? My flower girls and dress carriers are getting ready in the next room. They're all so young! What if they become upset and won't do things properly?" Her hands are trembling as they press against her lips.

"Mary-" I start.

"And the ring bearers, surely they've been taught to be careful and not lose the rings, right? What if John gets cold feet and leaves me standing at the altar? What if the food isn't good? What if I get cold feet and leave John?! It's all too much!"

"Mary, listen to me. John Watson adores you, you're the reason he keeps going, when you came along, he forgot about all the sorrow and terror that he faced in the war," Her head slowly turns over her shoulder to look at me. "Nothing makes him happier than the thought of you. And everything is finally falling into place. He would not have fought so hard for other's lives, if he did not want you in his."

Mary slowly brings herself away from the windowsill and in seconds, her arms are enfolded around me. "Thank you, Irene. I definitely needed to hear that. Come," she smiles, "You can get changed once we get rid of that ridiculous makeup."

"Right, I can take care of that," I laugh, but then Mary sits me down in front of the vanity and I glance at her curiously. "You know, normally everyone else is supposed to be spoiling and helping the bride, not the other way around."

"Believe it or not, this is helping me, this is relieving my stress. Friends help friends when they need it. And I am more than happy to call you my friend."

I never thought that Mary would take to me so kindly because of my tainted record for causing trouble, and most people don't befriend criminals.

"So, how was Holmes?" Mary's happy tone suddenly returns. "I'm guessing there was some sort of trouble judging by the way you're all dressed and I doubt you would normally wear something as hideous as this."

"Yes. There was a little mishap, but fortunately no one was severely hurt. The only problem is, we didn't have much time to get ready."

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror and she tilts her head to one side.

"I'm sure John will tell you all about it. At least he can look forward to his wedding day with a fonder memory than his stag party." I shake my head as Mary begins to run a comb through my nest of hair and I'm surprised it's not tangled.

I watch quietly as her fingers work miracles upon my head while I let my mind drift to the wedding's excitement. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," I say, taken by surprise. "You can ask me whatever you like. I just cannot promise an answer."

"Do you love him?"

"Who?" I ask, pretending to be coy. "John? I find him rather attractive, but I'm not going to be stealing your husband."

She laughs. "I mean Sherlock Holmes, silly!"

"I…" The mirror in front of us betrays my most inner thoughts and the answer lies in my red face; of course I think of him often and I'm almost certain these feelings I have for him resemble love, but whenever I work up the courage to do at least talk to him about it, something happens and then it all gets pushed to the very back of my mind.

Mary's lips curl up into a smile. Her fingers mockingly poke at my cheeks with girlish affection. "I think we both have our answer right here. Believe me when I say that he has never met anyone who compares to you."

She wants to help me find an answer, not just for her curiosity, but to help me If I could declare it to myself, then surely I could say it to him. But did I want to? Where would I tell him? In his room at Baker street? In the middle of a battle? Perhaps in the rain like so many romantic tales?

"Irene, I realize that we might not know each other very well yet, but I know for certain that Sherlock loves you with all his heart. I see the cloudiness in his eyes when he talks about the day he met you. I've seen the way he dozes off when he thinks of you. And John tells me all the time how he constantly teases him, trying to get him to admit his feelings."

"Really?" My voice is feeble and small, like a schoolgirl's. "I never noticed."

"Of course you didn't." Her comforting hand gently finds my cheek. "A girl never notices when she's in love. You can tell me all you want about how you would much rather be an independent woman romping across the world pursuing one man after another, than settle down with the one person who matters most to you, but I can see through that."

I want to tell her that she's wrong, to disagree with her, but what she's saying is true. I would love to live a quiet life, away from crime, away from the city, away from people.

"When I think about his face, my heart feels weak from fondness. And every time I've heard him make a deduction, it amazes me how intelligent he is, but the thing I love most about him are those rare moments when he allows his caring and loving side to show. Like yesterday, when he was trying to comfort me during my panic attack. He makes me feel like I am worth everything to him."

I can't believe I am admitting these things to a complete stranger.

"John wasn't my first fiancé, you know. My father disappeared when I was a girl. My mother passed after I was born and then my husband died three years ago." I take her hand softly in mine.

"I lost my parents, too. It must've been as hard for you as it was for me." We haven't been acquainted for more than ten minutes, but she and I already have one thing in common. The hole dug into our hearts from the loss of our loved ones.

"It was at first," she says as she continues on. "But then I met John and my life changed forever; if it's one thing I've learned, it's that life is too short to waste it worrying about all the worst things that can happen, and when the chance to fall in love comes, you seize it."

"You deserve every drop of bliss on your wedding day, Mary," I say, quietly and reassuringly, now it's my turn to put my arms around her.

"Every girl deserves to be as happy, no matter where she comes from. I wish for you to find your true love and never let him go."

"Think of all the wonderful memories you'll make together, think of your children, how they will look exactly like the both of you, and how lucky they will be to have such caring people in their lives."

"Come on, now, you're making me cry again," she laughs, dabbing away at her eyes with a handkerchief and being careful not to smudge away her makeup. "Here, you don't have much time to get ready." Her hand anxiously helps me to straighten out, and then waves me out from the room. "The guests will be here shortly and you don't want to be seen looking like a showgirl." She's practically glowing within two seconds. I instantly feel better and I am relieved to see her less stressed, too; I take my leave so she can have more time to prepare herself, too.

I am relieved once take off the thin blouse, tossing it over my head and hopefully into the rubbish where I will never hear from it again and put on the extra gown that Mary just happened to bring with her. She is good at planning ahead, I like that about her. I slip the dress over me, careful not to undo all the work that she's done on my hair.

Many people attend the wedding, and I'm glad that the church is big enough to hold everyone, none of whom I am familiar with or met until today, but everyone apparently knows who I am. There are John's military friends, Mary's well-traveled relatives, and many other happy spectators, including us. We all exchange pleasantries and I feel more at ease as we all fill the rows accordingly.

"Pardon me, Miss, but I am looking for someone by the name of Irene Adler. Last I saw her she was wearing a clown costume and-"

"I looked that bad, eh?" I ask.

"Yes, that dress did not suit you at all," he laughs lightly, "but this, this looks much better, it fits your figure perfectly. You didn't steal it, did you?"

"Of course not, I'd never be able to get it past you if I did. Mary just so happened to let me borrow it since one of her bridesmaids had to tend to her sick child."

"That was my second guess." He leans in closer. "You look perfect."

"So do you." I reply and finally, we sit down and wait for the bride to make her grand entrance.

While we're waiting, John's brother, Harry introduces me to some of his military friends just as two little girls walk over to me, carrying their flower baskets. There's another little girl with her. John walks along with them; they're John's nieces, Sophie and Olivia, twins.

"How do you do?" Sophie asks in an adorable voice.

"I'm ... fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you. This is Olivia, my sister."

Olivia extends her little hand and I, stunned, shake it.

"Your hand is cold." She remarks.

"Sorry, I forgot to bring my mittens with me."

"You can borrow mine," Sophie says. "they're a little bit small, though."

"I'll be alright, sweetheart, but thank you."

"Who's that snoring?" Olivia asks.

"You've heard of Sherlock Holmes, haven't you?" Harry asks.

"He sounds like a bear," says Sophie

"He acts like a bear sometimes, too," I whisper and the girls giggle.

Mary makes her way down the aisle, her feet as light as a feather. A thin veil shields her face, but it is not difficult to see how stunning she looks. It's enough for some of us to get emotional and weep a little.

Before we know it, she joins her fiancé at the altar. Watson, bruised but still dashing, is eagerly waiting for her arrival. When she takes her spot, his nervous hands pull back her veil. Not a word is spoken, but their eyes convey all the things they want to say. The only sound is the hushed hum of nearby violins and the happy sighs of the crowd.

Until Mary notices his and Sherlock's condition, then she looks between them and then to me, raising an eyebrow in confusion, but it goes away it seconds when John's eyes become misty at the sight of his beautiful wife. Vows are made elegantly and passionately and the love on their faces is unmistakable. The golden ring was placed on her smooth, white fingers; My white glove slowly reaches towards my eyes to wipe away a tear. Their lives will be forever changed, but so will all of ours. Children would be brought into the world. They would grow and marry themselves off as well. His position is clearly with Mary. They belong together, not just as a couple, but in life.

Their kiss was one for the Gods and every cheer from the audience is one of utter glee.

I'm just not sure Sherlock feels the same; I glance beside me to find that he's no longer there.

Everyone makes their way out into the beautiful, nearly-spring day. The heavens are blessing the couple with the radiant sunshine and blooming of buds, as if congratulating the happy couple, they toss some of their petals to the ground. No other season could be more perfect for a wedding and that's considering I've never been to one, besides my mother and step-father's, but I barely even remember what happened because it was so long ago, and I don't think I really paid attention, anyways.

"Present arms!"

The soldiers lift their swords valiantly in an arch for the Watsons to walk beneath. I stand at the very end of the line, craning my neck down the aisle to get a better view. Gladstone chases happily on their tails, but the crowd's applauding covers his excited barks.

Yet, where is Sherlock? I scan the crowd and the gardens for him, but I don't see him anywhere in the rows of people. Perhaps he's gotten stuck inside the church, or in the most likely scenario, is that he's clearly distressed. I know he is happy for his best friend, but he is his only best friend, and that makes it all the more agonizing. I shrug and continue to watch John walking down the aisle, with the biggest smile on his face that I've ever seen him wear. Once I see them enter a carriage of their own, drawn by two white horses, just like in a fairytale, my feet instantly take me away from the ceremony and towards the motorized carriage.

Passing a few large hedges and into the carriage lot, I can spot him a few feet in front of me. "Sherlock!" I call out to him. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, young man?"

He turns to face me, a keen smile playing on his grimy face. "First of all, I'm older than you, and second, I need to go and second, I'm not going anywhere, I want to make sure we have enough oil in the carriage for when we leave."

"You did a fine job. The wedding was flawless. You even managed to remember he ring."

There are no lectures coming from my lips. If he wanted to leave the ceremony, I knew it was not out of spite. That is all he says before he shoots me another smirk and I shake my head, walk off towards the carriage and watch in silence as his fingers begin cranking at the engine and I'm about to climb in when I notice someone else is standing there in front of it. Sherlock comes and stands beside me and I lean over to whisper. We are a safe distance away from him that I can have a conversation without the fear of being overheard by the other gentleman.

"Not poor enough that he can't afford a barber, but not arrogant enough to have a clean face. A man of duty. But to whom? His hat is old, but nicely cut and perfectly suited to his head. It's too nice to be something that was passed down. He clearly cares about making his own way in the world. A man of duty? A soldier, perhaps. His jacket was brand new. There was not a speck of dust on the tie. He is not a member of the wedding. He's here for other reasons. Business reasons."

"Well, done." He cracks an amused grin. "You catch on very quickly, Miss Adler; seems I've taught you well."

Admittedly, I am glad to have made him proud. I bend down to pick a few white dandelions off of the grass and brush my finger along the top of them. "You think I can ever be as talented at it as you are?"

This only makes him grin wider. "I think you could."

Smiling, I blow one of the weeds so that the white bits float into the wind and brush past his face. My next words are cut off and my eyes narrow threateningly as the stranger approaches; I am not sure who this man is, but I know deep down that there's something about him that I cannot trust. "I've been to a wedding here before. A funeral too. The Professor wants to meet."

_That makes sense now._

"I'd expected to hear from him sooner in light of recent events."

"He was wondering if it would be convenient for you to come by the college this afternoon. His lecture concludes at four."

"Looking forward." He confidently jumps down from the carriage and he grins, walking over to me as the gentleman nods, going his own way. "I'm only staying because there's cake."


	7. Chapter 7

Books have become my companions for the day, and this particular one tells the story of how beautiful gypsy girl, Esmeralda makes friends with Quasimodo, the hunchbacked bell ringer of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris who has spent most of his life locked away from the world and raised by the very man who killed his mother. Halfway through the book, I am beginning to think that he and the girl with long hair who lives in a tower would make a decent couple.

The words on the pages take me away from the troubles of the real world, they bring me into a peaceful state. However, I can't help but be intrigued by and feel pity for Quasimodo who just wants to be treated like a human being and not the monster that he believes himself to be because of the way he looks.

I wonder if I looked anything like that people would not see me as the beautiful seductress; perhaps I would be a penniless beggar in the streets, or maybe I would be in the circus because of my hideous appearance, and the whole world would laugh at me and call me names.

_Or maybe I'm just taking this book too seriously._

I've already started reading it before now, in case you thought I could magically speed-read a book in such a short time, it just so happens that Sherlock somehow has a copy of the book himself; and with a little under ten pages left to read, it starts to get a little bit depressing, so I close it with a soft thud and risk a glance at him reading in the chair opposite mine and his eyes look back at me in uncertainty, what must he be thinking? Is he thinking of ways to explain to the police how he and Doctor Watson nursed me back to health? Will he turn me over once this whole thing with Moriarty is sorted out?

"I take it you've enjoyed the book?" He raises and eyebrow and I nod, setting it back on the shelf where it belongs; this makes me wonder why he has this sort of book in the first place, but as soon as I'm about to ask why, he says, "Watson lent it to me because for some reason, he thinks that fanciful novels of gothic romances of this sort capture my attention, but it seems to have caught yours."

"It's a little bit depressing for my taste," I reply, stepping over to the window to look out. "It's got romance, adventure, all the things I find positively perfect in a book. "but it all ends in tragedy."

Spoiler alert for all those who haven't read the book: Esmeralda dies in the end. I bet you don't remember being told that version, do you?

"Well, all life ends in death, I suppose. There was an old saying that my schoolteacher had engraved above the chalkboard, Momento Mori, which translates to-"

"Remember death." He glances at the clock, ticking in the background, "Every second that passes, means a second closer to our inevitable passing, but life around us goes on."

"When did you become so cynical?" He jokes and I smile a little. "Why don't we change the subject, eh?"

"To what, the weather? It doesn't look like it's going to stay this nice all the time. Hopefully Mother Nature will treat the Watsons more kindly."

"It's always like this at this time of year, but yes, let us hope that the sun will decide to stay out for a little bit longer." The newspaper crinkles loudly as he turns the next page.

Part of the reason I loved living with the Holmes family, was because once in a while, especially during the summer holidays when lessons were done for the year, we would go on exciting trips to the countryside, and sometimes to the coast where we could soak up the last rays of sunshine before dark, or pretend that we were pirates searching for buried treasure, though we never found any, those were some of the best times, the clouds there were so much different than they are here, merged with the smoke billowing from the chimneys.

Those days are gone, and now I must face the real world for what it is. Good? Evil? It's hard to tell which is which nowadays. I've spent most of my life believing that there was both inside all of us, that in our own minds, what we're doing is the right thing, no matter how wrong it might seem to the rest, and the naïve part of me put my trust and my faith in people who obviously didn't have the best intentions or my well being in mind, and in that process, I've lost the few people that had been with me my entire life, through thick and thin, my best friends. That's when the whole scope of what I'd done set in. I betrayed Sherlock and broke his heart a hundred times over, and although it had been months since that day on Tower Bridge, I don't trust myself to not succumb to his said feelings for me.

I would be a big, fat liar if I told you that I am not at least _attracted_ to him. What's not to like? He still makes my life an absolute thrill and I can never tell what's going to happen while I'm around him. He is charming, serious but funny, exceptionally smart but can also be an idiot, brave and most importantly, he puts the needs of others before his own, much unlike me sometimes. The corner of his lips turn up into a handsome smile and just seeing that brings a strange feeling to my stomach and my legs, even though I'm sitting down, but no, these aren't feelings, and if they are, they won't last long, I guarantee it.

Of course it does not mean that I don't get worried from time to time, when they both go on very dangerous cases, they would always end up getting injured in some shape or form, and only a few times did they almost get themselves killed. I try not to dwell too much on that, though, my faith in him has never faltered once and I don't expect it to now.

I may sound like a broken record when I say this, but Sherlock is the most brilliant man I've ever met, and even though I've been with a few men, no one has ever captured me quite like he did.

"I must leave for a while," he says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"You're going to speak with him now, aren't you?" I ask.

"I shouldn't be long, stay here until I come back and then we'll think about what we're going to do next."

A new question arises, one that I am too afraid to answer. Do I follow Sherlock to the college like I did to the Diogenes Club so I can protect him? Or should I heed his advice and stay here until he comes back? The reasonable part of me wants to do the latter, but the more stubborn part of me wants to do the former. I've learned how to survive on your own. Caring for people, trusting them, it only ends in pain and inevitably leads to heartache; Now look at me, running for my life, a fugitive of the law, just me against the world, and that's exactly how it should be, all I want to do now is run as fast and as far away from him as I can so I won't ever hurt him again and now it seems that the world is gaining on me; I'm in more danger than I've ever been in my whole life and the last thing I want to do is drag him and John along into the frenzy.

"I can't do that, you know. Stay here." His words draw him away from his thoughts and he turns to look at me and I shift from foot-to-foot, keeping my eyes on the ground. "You've done enough for me, making sure I survive another day, but just keeping me here is risky enough. What if he finds out you saved me, what if he plans to hurt you because of it?"

"He's out for me either way, and I highly doubt that you being here is going to change anything, but you're well enough now that you can leave if that's what you really want. Go somewhere where he can't find you." Something in his voice makes me feel guilty, as if he's been reading my thoughts this entire time and that was the last thing I wanted.

"Well, I am certainly not going to overstay my welcome," I say in what I hope sounds like a cheerful voice. "Thank you, for all you've done, and thank Doctor Watson as well when he comes back from his honeymoon."

Fear begins to bubble up inside of me. My weary eyes scan his body, as though I want to remember it in case anything happens to him; on the other hand, James Moriarty isn't stupid enough to make a move on Sherlock Holmes at a public place like Oxford, but I want to take note of his stature just in case. I encourage him to get moving. If Moriarty knows we're out there, alive and well, the threats will continue to grow. And the more he threatens us, the more afraid he must be of us. It is a consoling thought.

I approach him, as if to give him one last embrace, but he steps away as if he's just been bitten by a feral animal. "Very well, there's a suitcase on the top shelf of my room, it shouldn't be too high for you, be sure to pack some warm clothes, it looks chilly outside. Goodbye, Irene." He is out the door without another word, and as I watch his coat flipping behind him, Moriarty's tight grin is all I see.

Reaching the suitcase is easy once I'm able to get a good angle of the cabinet where it's placed and stand on my tiptoes, Nothing can protect me from the world out there, not even Sherlock, and it shouldn't be his responsibility to do so. The pane of glass and my wooden doors are not enough to keep the monsters away. The little blue bird twitters and sings outside the window, but the pleasant melody doesn't do anything to calm my raging nerves. The constantly ticking of the clock above the desk mocks me to no end. I am worried that if I keep pacing against the wooden floor any longer, I will wear it out completely.

Picking up the suitcase in my hand, it's not too heavy, I only put a change of clean clothes in there, the ones I'd stolen from Sherlock last night and a warm scarf; I check my pockets and I have just enough money to get myself a room at the Grand for the night until tomorrow, then I will get myself a train ticket, maybe go somewhere peaceful; maybe I'll visit my aunt Eliza, see how she's getting on. The last time we spoke, she was wishing me luck on my marriage to the King of Bohemia and going to Japan with her new fiancé, no doubt the cherry blossoms will soon be in bloom.

Leaving has always been the hardest part, but it doesn't have to be that way; I can just as easily slip out without being noticed and luckily, as soon as I am outside, no one is wandering the streets. I am too invested to get to the hotel to pay attention to the rain. My boot prints splash in the puddles left behind on the sidewalk from last night's rainfall. The streets are flooded with people. Parents with small children, boys and girls dressed in their uniforms going to school, and dogs walking obediently alongside their owners; a hansom - or as you probably call them nowadays, horse-drawn carriages - strolls past me and the driver tries as hard as they may to be patient with the sleek black horses.

Waiting on the edge of the curb, I keep glancing over my shoulder to make sure that no one is following me before one of the carriages comes up to me. I glance one last time at the place I once called my home away from home and then step in and I am thankful that I am alone this time and that no one has decided to follow me. Closing my eyes, I lean back against the seat and as we pull away from Baker Street, I look out the window and begin to drive away into the unknown.

There is something in the air that is very unsettling and sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe it is the sudden chill or the squeaking wheels, constant jerks and bumps, or the unnerving whinnying the horses let out every so often. It can just as easily be all of them. Perhaps I am just having flashbacks of the last time I was in one of these vehicles. In my work, the raising of the hairs on my neck have saved me on a couple of accounts, but this is the only time I elect to ignore it and brush it off as a painful memory.

Telling the driver to turn back to Baker Street seems like a good enough option, but I'm halfway across town and I doubt he would appreciate having to go all the way back, especially because he's just told me that this is the last run for the horses for the day before they take their leave. If we continue a little while longer, I will arrive at the train station in time. The only way I can draw myself away from my troubling thoughts, is by watching the people passing by out the window.

I am planning to go from London and then catch a boat to France. My Aunt Eliza may meet me there and help me find a place of my own; and possibly go back to performing at the Paris Opera house, at least I would go back to the life I knew earlier at hopefully they will take me back; but the one question, that one dread that keeps prodding me is whether Moriarty would even think of following me there, or whether Sherlock would be waiting there for me, manage to get a hold of me as he always does.

I shake the thoughts away; I know I'm not out of the woods yet, but there's nothing to worry about now. After all, he specifically said before that he was done chasing me. And if luck wins out, Moriarty will think that I'm dead. However, I know him well enough to know that he can't possibly let me escape without a fight, or maybe he will, just to watch me suffer mentally; I guess that's why I've become obsessively paranoid.

Nightmares of Sherlock being tormented all the while with a sinister smile, come flooding back to me, but it's not enough to drive me to panic again. Just last night, I had one about opening my front door in Paris, only to see the bloodied body of the detective, complete with a note saying how I had brought his horrible end.

It seems that every time I've attempted an escape, eager to leave behind the everyday fear of what Moriarty will ask me to do, or do to me, there is one fact that plagues me, I would miss Sherlock… quite terribly, and the same goes for this time around, but I convince myself that he's better off and possibly glad to have interference, such as myself, out of his hair, which is another reason why I was embarrassed to have been helped by him.

I don't want to see him hurt, and chances are, he's put himself in even more danger just by helping Simza escape the Cossack who was sent - most likely by him - to kill her and he's probably not going to let her go, either nor her brother.

_All of these people are in danger, and yet you're not going to do anything about it? You're just going to let them die?_ _Shame on you, Irene._

There is no shame in admitting defeat. I have thrown in the towel, I've given up.

_After all Sherlock and John have done for you, you're abandoning them when they could possibly need you the most. You say you're a coward, right? Prove yourself otherwise! Show him_ _that you're never gonna give him up or let him down ever again. He saved your life, now you owe him yours._

Abruptly, the wheels make a sharp creek and the carriage takes a sudden lurch to the left, stronger than the others that I had experienced. I have to grip the door handle to keep myself from sliding off the padded seat and then we stop moving. Just what I need! A wheel perhaps needs to be oiled, which should only take a minute or two at most, or if the wheel broke, or the axel has snapped, well of course the driver has an extra just in case. After all, it's a common occurrence, especially in the winter and early spring when slush and snow is impossible to drive through.

"Ma'am?" The driver calls from the outside, knocking on the window with his hand. I open the door just a crack to hear him more clearly. "I'm awfully sorry, ma'am, but three of the spokes on the wheel snapped like a twig and well… uh…Danny said we didn't need extra wheels, that's right. So I didn't bring none."

"You should always be prepared, sir," I reply. If I had any inclination of actually being at the train station earlier than I need to, I would be more frustrated, but the train is not to depart for at least another hour. "Is there any way you can get it fixed?"

"I dunno, it seems we might have to take it to get it fixed, but that could take a while."

I'm not patient enough to sit still any longer. "It's quite alright, I'm sure I can walk the rest of the way on foot," I open the door a little bit more and jump out onto the road without his help and step onto the sidewalk. "I will send someone to bring you a wheel if that helps."

"Well, I wouldn't want to-" the other driver stutters, with a disappointed shrug as if he's holding himself personally responsible for the damaged wheel. "If it's not too much trouble."

"It's hardly any trouble at all. There's actually somewhere I need to be." I pay them both a generous sum and then take off running in the opposite direction of where I was supposed to go, practically stumbling into puddles and barely bumping into people as I pass.

I am able to find the shop that sells wheels for carriages and give them the directions to where the gentlemen are waiting. Then without a second more wasted, I start off again.

Baker Street is a five-minute run, and I pay no mind up my burning lungs; I'm losing my breath just writing all of this down. I don't stop until I get to the door and opening it, run inside and slip into my room without anyone noticing.

* * *

The hour passes slower than I want it to so I continue where I left off in cleaning the flat; there is so much rubbish that needs to be disposed of and so I ask Mrs. Hudson if I can borrow a bin and when I come back up the stairs, I begin tossing things away and continue dusting. I still have the clothes that I was supposed to wear last night, and thankfully I have disposed of the showgirl dress, casting into the blazing fires of the fireplace and almost smiling with glee as I watch the purple become soaked in ashes.

During my cleaning, I happen to find a record player and a few records, picking up the top one from the pile, I place it in and watch as the disk spins around, filling the room with a woman's operatic voice. Two minutes into the song, I hear the front door opening and closing which means that Sherlock is back. Flying down the steps, I run towards him and he instantly halts in his tracks.

"Somehow I knew you wouldn't leave." He says. "You never were one to run away from an adventure. You once told me you wanted to be an explorer, to visit the Egyptian Pyramids, and to track animals in the Amazon and chase down a polar bear in the North Pole."

"And you wanted to be a pirate," I counter, "but it looks like we've put away such childish things, haven't we? What does that have to do with anything, though?" I ask, frowning at the trace of mud that he's managed to track into the house. I wait for an answer, however, it never comes; now that isn't something unusual.

"I wouldn't necessarily call your dreams childish. Nowadays, most women are afraid to go venturing out on their own. But I don't think you will agree with how cold it is up there, and you're not one for getting muddy."

"Sherlock, I'm not some prissy princess who isn't afraid of getting her hands dirty."

"I don't doubt that." He flashes me a smile, one that forces me to grin back, and then it falters. "Irene, Is everything alright?"

"No," I mumble. "Everything is not alright. Nothing ever seems to be alright when our lives are constantly in danger and I can't be there to save you. I keep expecting someone to walk in with a gun in their hands at any minute. A gun to point to my head. A gun to fire. A gun to end my life, all because of a red-headed man."

"Now, now." His smirk is the furthest thing from helpful. "I never knew that you had so little faith in me. I'm quite alright, and so are you," he reassures, and hearing the music, he turns his head towards the staircase. "Fischerweise."

"Gib auf nur deiner Tücke, Den Fisch betrügst du nicht!" I am well aware of the meaning behind the words. Moriarty has always been one for fishing metaphors. "Give up your foolish trickery-"

"This fish you can not cheat," the detective finishes, impressed. "Something tells me you've heard it before."

"I performed it once, in Berlin and though I've heard it many times since then, I have only just learned its meaning."

Hanging up his jacket, he steps closer to me. "I wish I could have been there to see you sing? You've always had such a beautiful voice."

Turning towards the staircase, I smile, keeping my eyes slightly averted and feeling my cheeks turn pink. "What did Moriarty want from you?" I swallow the bile that sneaks up when I'm forced to speak his name, it tastes like venom on my tongue.

"He just wanted to meet so we could speak on more understanding terms. What made you decide to come back?"

"I was thinking maybe it's in your best interest if I stick around for a bit longer?" I tap my chin with my finger as if thinking long and hard about some

"Then it makes it all the easier for me to propose that you should come away with me for a week to the Continent."

"Where?"

"Paris."

There is something very strange in all this. It is certainly not in Sherlock's nature to take an aimless holiday, certainly not to Paris, and something about his pale, worn face tells me that his nerves are at their highest tension. He is quick to see the question in my eyes, and I also see that there is ferocity in his own eyes and he is clenching his jaw in anger.

"What's wrong? What did he want?"

"Nothing you should worry about, darling."

He doesn't want to tell me what's really on his mind, not because he's a stubborn man who thinks he can figure it out on his own, even though I know he can, it's because he doesn't want to worry me. I take his hands in mine and lock my eyes with his.

"You can talk to me, you know. Whatever it is, I'm here for you." It was time that Sherlock saw me as a companion and partner and not just someone who helped when she was needed.

"I learned a great many things it seems," he chuckles darkly. "One, for example, being that he is an egoist. He also has splendid penmanship, is a liar and that he knows that I am in the game now."

"Is that the reason why you suddenly want to take a holiday?"

Sighing, he looks at me with a desperate expression and puts his hands on his hips before he begins to sway them side to side. His curls on the top of his head bounce and I bring him to sit down on the bench against the wall. "I'm afraid that Watson will not be honeymooning in Brighton after all unless we get to him in time."

An audible groan escapes my closed lips, that sounds like the Moriarty I know. "He's going after him, isn't he? And after he and Mary just got married? Can't they can't even spend a moment together in peace?!" I look to the window and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that I won't have another panic attack. Counting to ten in my head, I temporarily calm down. How had such a beautiful day turned dark so quickly?

I watch in silence as his face twists into something of pain. Instinctively, my hand instantly reaches out towards his cut cheek and he places his on top. "He will not touch Watson, or Mary, or you, I can promise you that." He whispers. I had often admired my friend's courage, but never more than now, as he sat quietly checking off a series of incidents which must have combined to make up a day of horror.

"Or you." Bringing my hands up, I remove his scarf and I nearly have to stand on my tiptoes in order to reach it. "It's not fair that you're taller than me." He smiles and I know that my attempts at comfort have not been in vain.

"Listen to me, Sherlock. That man is a bully, a big bully who pretends to be tough and thinks he can take over the world, but you and I both know that he must have a weakness. We all do. You will solve this just as you always have and I will be right by your side while you do so."

"And what of your protection?" I turn and go up the stairs and he follows me.

"It's simple. I can fend for myself." My voice trickles off into a whisper. "And when you happen to be there, perhaps you can aid me if I'm looking troubled and I will do the same for you." Suddenly, all of my previous fears and doubts are washed away and they're replaced by courage and determination. Sherlock's brown eyes are practically jeering. "What are you thinking?" I know that he is definitely up to something, I can practically see the gears and pulleys in his mind working themselves into a frenzy.

Unknowingly, I am running my fingers through his hair as the gap closes between us, but I can't bring myself to remove them and he doesn't seem to mind.

"We'll be taking him to Paris, that's where the professor will be giving his next tour." Clearly, that's why we are making our way there.

"To Paris." Oddly enough, I haven't been to Paris in years. "Then we must not waste any time, we must pack and leave."

"Yes! As soon as possible!" He claps his hands together with a greedy excitement and hurriedly exits the hall so he can get dressed. Criminal life teaches you how to change in and out of clothes quickly and efficiently and with clothes like these, it's much easier than having to lace up a corset all the time.

Freely and without shame, I slip into my costume, tie up my hair so it looks more boyish and alter my shoes. "Are you quite ready yet?" His voice asks from behind the closed door. "Time is ticking away!"

"Time is always ticking away!" I answer with a click of my suitcase. "And do you want to know why? Because you're chasing its heels all day long."


	8. Chapter 8

Wrapped up in the coat I've been entrusted with, and deep inside the boots, suitable for trudging through the rain and mud, we exit the flat, saying a quick goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on the way out. The first step I take outside after the cozy ride is a chilly one as a gust of wind sweeps past us and nips at my nose. A sigh seeps past my lips and I tug at his sleeve in my hand. Our friends are in danger and there is no time to waste! The mariah will help us get to the station as quickly as possible, but coming up with a plan and then putting it into action is another matter entirely.

Of course, it would be even better if I actually knew what the plan was, since I don't appreciate being kept in the dark about these things, I want to know my place in the plan so I can better help him. I know it's his method, but it's certainly not mine. I don't like surprises.

It has just occurred to me that I may look like a boy and smell like a boy, but I don't walk like one, so I try to imitate the men passing me, taking larger strides and walking with my legs farther apart. It feels a little unnatural for me, this is just temporary, however, so I can put up with it for a little while longer. Sherlock looks at me, confused at my lame attempt to imitate his manly air and I can tell he's on the verge of smiling.

"May I ask what you're doing?"

"I'm trying to walk like a man, what's it look like? If I am given a part to play, I want to make sure I put my whole heart into it."

"And are you enjoying the role, Miss Adler."

Getting in, I give a shiver and then sit all the way back, making sure I slump. "That's Mister Adler to you, Mister Holmes, and yes, I am finding it rather amusing; only, I'm a little self-conscious about how I smell. I don't know any man who wears Parisian perfume, but I could have at least bathed. Do all men have such terrible hygiene?"

"Are you saying I smell?" He laughs, not taking offense to my comment as he sits across from me.

"Not at all, I'm just saying a nice, warm bath will do you some good, not only does it keep you clean but it helps relax your muscles."

"Did you bring your perfume?"

"No, I thought it would be a bad idea considering the fact that Moriarty will probably recognize me by my scent."

Withdrawing into my coat a little, I lapse into an almost comfortable silence and keep my eyes trained on an elderly couple strolling on the sidewalk alongside us. A smile comes to my face. Sherlock glances at his watch and notes that it is only another eight minutes until we reach our destination; the rest of the ride is as quiet as the grave. My stomach is twisting inside of itself, but I am able to hide the panic in my face beneath the newsboy cap.

Sherlock is sitting directly beside me, though what made him do so to begin with, I'm not quite sure. It's only when my hands started shaking that I understand. He is a little bit inexperienced when it comes to providing physical reassurance, and even verbal comfort was difficult to master at first. He quietly takes my head and presses it to his shoulder.

"I'm just so worried about everything: John and Mary, myself, you."

The station on the other hand is packed; the noise and commotion quickly puts me out of my previous state of mind; it's overwhelming how many people want to travel at this time, then again, it is a Friday and so a lot of people wish to visit family for the weekend. Sherlock doesn't do anything less than look at me; his pace is as quick as his mind and it's hard to keep up with him. Once he has his mind focused on a case, he erases everything else going on around him.

Running is a lot easier than usual thanks to these boots. When I wear heels, I always end up tripping over my own feet or slipping on the ice or other sleek surfaces. The only thing I really need to ensure is that the laces are properly tied and that my hair doesn't fall out from underneath the cap; though with the amount of pins I put into it, there's little chance that it will.

It seems that the lineup is long, there are at least ten people ahead of us and he bounces on his heels impatiently, like he's tempted to cut to the front of the line. He closes his eyes, trying to drown out all the sounds and smells; sometimes, it's like he can identify every single voice and pick up the tiniest sound; I wonder what that must be like, having so much going on around you that you can't think straight. It's like a sensory overload and the frustration is written on his face. I want to at least calm him because he's on edge and people are starting to notice, so I step out from behind him and then when I'm close enough, I discreetly slip his hand through mine, squeezing it reassuringly. He appears to appreciate the gesture for he returns the friendly gesture and opens his eyes again. With my other hand, I bring his face to look at me and I take a deep breath; he copies me and the crinkles on his forehead go away and his face softens.

Everyone goes back to minding their own business, but I don't think the first class citizens will take nicely to a pauper among them, much less a woman pretending to be a man, but no one seems to see through my disguise. This time, I was more prepared and put on my corset to at least aid in covering up my womanly chest parts. Maybe I accidentally made it too tight; I've only just noticed how constricting it is; Once I get on the train, I will see if I can loosen it a bit so I can breathe, but at this point, it feels like it's taking forever, now I'm starting to get a little impatient.

Slowly, but surely, we make our way to the counter. "Two tickets to Brighton. First class." He slams money down on the counter, taking both me and the ticket boy by surprise. He quickly shuffles around behind the desk and presents us with what we need. Sherlock gratefully tips his hat and begins to rush straight forward to the platform. Men in sharp red uniforms load bags in towards the back and I should have realized it sooner. He is going to be in a uniform and see if he can get access to John and Mary's compartment. It's a positively perfect idea.

"You know, I've always been attracted to a man in uniform."

"Then you'll love me in this look." He grins, but it disappears so quickly, that it's like I only imagined it. "Now, you wait in there until I am finished with my disguise." He says quietly and I think he knows that I've picked up on the hint. "By the way, you look good in my clothes."

Before I can say anything more, he leaves. I watch after him before shrugging and stepping into my compartment. I'd ridden second class before, and first when my aunt and I would go on tour. I'm actually more terrified of what his possible plan is, than the act of following through with it.

Boarding the train is easy, no one seems to recognize me now that I'm dressed up and my face is covered in soot from the chimney. I will spare you the details of how that happened. Sitting down on the seat, I watch the other people boarding and then as soon as I'm in the clear, I quickly loosen my corset. Taking a big breath of air, I feel my whole body relaxing, and sitting down again, I open the book I brought along with me.

Sherlock has taken quite a while to change and I'm starting to get anxious, I try not to worry about it too much, but what if he's gotten into trouble and he needs my help? It certainly wouldn't be the first time he's asked for my help when dealing with a case; I let out a sigh of relief when he eventually finds his way back into the compartment and the relief turns into bewilderment; the bitterness etched over each of his sun-caused wrinkles makes me tilt my head to one side in puzzlement.

"What happened?" My smile is glued to my face as he angrily tries to relieve his large skirts from the clutches of the heavy door; he tugs so hard that I'm afraid it's going to rip. Finally, he gets them free and they flutter out beneath him as he walks and takes a seat across from me. We are quite the odd couple, I think to myself, a slim man and a muscular woman aboard a train to help prevent a disaster, but luckily no one is around to speculate.

He just grumbles something unintelligible and I bite down on my lower lip to keep from laughing right then and there. "You know what, I can help you fix things up." I step over to my bag and then pull out my cosmetics. Gasping, he sends me a look of horror as I sit on the seat beside him and then turn so that I'm sitting cross-legged on the seat.

"After I just saved your life, this is how you repay me?"

"Yes." Tapping his nose lightly, I open the bag and set everything out onto the seat for easier access. "You are a master of disguise. Sherlock, What is one streak of lipstick and a bit of blush going to do to you? Think of this as a way to help Watson."

"Very well, but don't you dare mention this to anyone at Scotland Yard, or else-"

"Who cares what they think anyways? Stay still and stop talking until I'm done. I don't want to make a mess of things." I order softly, I quietly take his chin in one of my hands, pulling it towards me. As my hand begins to apply the makeup onto his face, I feel myself becoming completely focused as if I'm an artist working on a canvas. "In all honesty, you don't look that bad, not anything like the women in the stories, mind you, but there's a certain charm of your own."

Another long silence slips over us, that seems to be the pattern; short conversations followed by long gaps of silence in between; the only sounds I can make out clearly, is the beating of both of our hearts. I wonder if he can hear mine as well as I can hear his. Though I assume he is embarrassed, his eyes are focused on my face the entire time. I must be blushing, considering I am not wearing an ounce of powder and we are so close to one another that we can feel each other's breath.

"You hardly need any of this." Slowly, my eyes lift to meet his and my cheeks are coated with their own blush. Inching even closer towards him, I can feel his leg against mine and for one second, I am tempted to pull him into a kiss, but since we are on a mission, I don't want the moment to be rudely interrupted.

"Actually, I do need it. This beautiful face doesn't happen naturally, you know." I imagine I look a lot different without my makeup on my face, I haven't had a good chance to look yet; and honestly, I have no intention on finding out. Refocusing myself on the task at hand, I begin to apply a blue powder above his eyes, and then whisk the pink blush across his cheeks. We are definitely going to great lengths to ensure our friends' safety, and I doubt they won't be surprised by the state of our dress.

"Irene, look at me," He takes my wrist, stopping me from doing anything else. "I don't know what you mean by that, I think you're as beautiful as they come. I told you last night that you were perfect, and I meant it."

_No, I didn't hear him correctly. Sherlock did not just call me beautiful, did he? Not in the way I find him._

He is the love I have always wanted, but never gotten.

"Shh. You're getting all sentimental. Stop talking before you hurt yourself and let me finish. Oh, one more thing," I grin, finding plenty of reasons to laugh despite the incoming danger. I pull a large, blonde wig from the trunk and toss it lazily on top of his head.

"Irene, I swear one day you will be the death of me!" He can't keep back his smile, either.

Something loud coming from one of the compartments startles me while I'm trying to apply the lipstick and it smudges. My hand fumbles for a handkerchief and I mutter a string of complaints under my breath, before fixing it up and in seconds, I am finished with my piece.

"There you are, Sherly." Laughing, I put everything back into my bag and then sit like a proper - err.. gentleman once more. Silence surrounds us, for a while, and he isn't afraid of looking exasperated when I move to sit across from him once more. His eyes are wild beneath their blue shadow and for a second I think he's going to scream out in frustration.

"They're taking too long! I don't know how Moriarty's men are going to trick Watson and Mary, or with what, but so far no one has even knocked on their door. I'm fearing that I got into these hose for nothing."

"The Watsons, you mean. They're married." I point out, not daring to tease him about the dress anymore.

"For now, anyway." He flaps a hand and freezes as another high-pitched whistle from the train blows; it seems we both read the same idea in the other's face and stumble towards the door to peek our heads out. A man cladded in red begins to walk down the hallway with a bottle of glitzy champagne perfectly placed in his hand. He doesn't stop until he was at Platform 7, precisely where John and Mary are sitting.

Our heads fly back behind the door in fear of catching his eye. "Is that him?"

"Wait for it." His slim finger rises to his lips. It's difficult to hear over the thumping of the train, but we can see exactly what's going on; the concierge is giving John and Mary a bottle of booze. My thoughts are cut off by the squeaking of a train whistle. Above us, the electrical lamp flickers for a moment before bursting back into life. Mary's scream is clear from the thin walls between us and that's when Sherlock begins to tug me towards the cabin on the opposite side and I let him lock me in the darkness. The light bulb never regains its glow after the power shut off in that cabin; the only thing I can make out clearly was his astoundingly blue eye powder.

"Someone else is coming down the hallway. I'm going to take care of things." Despite the tension, his voice was reasonably calm.

"You are?"

"Yes." He pauses. "If I need your help, you will give it. Is that understood?" Without even a small warning, Sherlock throws back the door and sends a punch with his elbow to a man in the corridor and turns to send a bullet whizzing down the hall and I spot two more men heading our way.

"Duck!" His voice is firm as he lifts the gun towards my head. With another shriek, I get down and two more bullets are sent whirling over my newsboy cap. It's a peculiar sight; I notice how tall he is and how muscular his arms are compared to that of an average lady, as well as his broad shoulders. And his movements are slightly less graceful. He grabs the gun from the soldier and shoots at two soldiers that are coming down the other side. They duck and run away as another soldier comes up behind the Sherlock and grabs him, but he hits him in the back of the neck.

An amused smile crosses my face as metal continues to soar through the air, we back up until the cocking of a gun catches us off guard. John holds it firmly beneath Sherlock's chin, even after the horrible shock flickers onto his face. I was unsure whether to blame the disbelief on his unexpected appearance, or the lipstick tumbling down his face.

"I agree it's not my best disguise, but I had to make do." Sherlock's long lashes slowly flicker towards me. "We had to make do." Pathetically, I give John a small wave before his face turns to one of repulsion. Before he has a chance to get a word in, Sherlock shoves John inside of his compartment, and I quickly stumble into the doorway as well. "They'll be back."

Mary wears the same look that John did. "My God!"

"John!" Mary's voice was weak as she struggled to grasp the situation. "Shut the door!"

"They'll only shoot through it, my love," her fiancée responds bitterly, but not towards her, of course.

Sherlock tries to console her, but nothing seems to work. "He's right, you know. You probably wonder about our crazy adventures. Now you at least get to say that you've been in one!" Her eyes match the color of her hair. "I understand."

Mary leans in a bit closer, narrowing her eyes into threatening slits. "Do you?"

"Terribly inconvenient!" Sherlock rises from his seat and things go straight back to business. "We don't have much time." I watch as he peeks his torso out of the train.

"How many are we expecting?" asks John.

"Half a dozen!" Sherlock replies with his head still outside.

"Who are they?" John nearly laughs as he speaks the question. He just wanted to go to Brighton with Mary. Is it really that much to ask? Little does he know, he is actually going to Paris.

"A wedding present," Sherlock snickers. "From Moriarty. Lovely wedding ceremony, by the way! Many a tear shed in joy!"

Mary's head snaps towards me in fear and I take her arms in mine for some form of support; she sighs and turns away from Sherlock. What does Sherlock have in store for Mary? Is she to go to Paris as well? She cries out for John and before any of us can get another word in, he is firing at more men down the hallway.

"Just a minute, darling!" Standing up again, I join him, seeing the passion and fury in his eyes as he blasts them with everything he's got; turning around, I notice Sherlock holding Mary tightly in his grasp.

"Do you trust me?"

Her voice is as firm as the gun in John's hand. _"No!"_

"Well then I shall…" Sherlock's eyes glance towards John who's obviously too preoccupied to be focusing on anyone else but his targets. "… have to do something about that." And he throws her out the door. I shriek and my stomach lurched as I hear Mary scream out and land in the water with a loud splash, and I push past him and look down, seeing a lifeboat being rowed by Mycroft, making its way toward her. I put a hand to my chest, greatly relieved that Mary hadn't fallen to her death at the bottom of the cliff. "Trust me, I wouldn't have done it if I didn't know what I was doing; John, do shut the door," he orders as the doctor looks around cautiously then shuts the door. He turns around and just sees the two of us.

"It had to be done." He raises his hands up. His eyes widen in fear and he runs to the open door and looked out. "She's safe now, Watson."

"Did you just kill my new wife?!" John shouts at him with anger. Sherlock starts to explain but John charges at him and grabs him by the neck and pushes him down on the seats; I go over and try to separate the two grown men who are fighting like schoolboys on the courtyard.

"Of course not!" Sherlock shouts back, but he is responded to with a punch across the face and he tries to shove John off of him.

"How can you know when you just threw her off a train?!"

"I told you, I timed it perfectly!"

"What does that mean?!" He accidentally tears off part of Sherlock's shirt, exposing his chest and I turn to the window, wondering how this could get any more awkward.

"Calm down! By the time we explain the three of us will be dead!" I exclaim; the boys look up as the door opens and another soldier comes up and aims a gun at us. The soldier looks at them oddly, before he takes aim and fires, but instead of shooting a bullet, the gun backfires and caught the soldiers on fire. John and I stare in horror.

"That was no accident. It was by design," Sherlock hands John some sort of chain and some knobs from what I can only assume was a from toilet and sink. He takes one end of the chain, which has a grenade at the end, and puts it on one of the bars of the luggage rack then takes the white oval knob and wraps it around the handle of the door. John gets off of him and looks down to the water where Mary is safe and sound in a lifeboat with two gentlemen and a lantern. "Now do you need me to elaborate? Or can we just crack on?" Then he walks out of the open door, grabs on the edges and shimmies along.

"We've got to be out of our minds!" I say, following suit. The wind slashes at our faces and at the speed the train is going, we could very well be blown right off and that would make for an interesting story, or a newspaper article, "A Girl, A Doctor and A Detective Fall To Their Untimely Deaths While Walking Along The Sides of A Train." I can imagine Scotland Yard having to tell my dear auntie the tragic news and the look of sheer terror written on her face as I look up to the sky so that I wouldn't have to look down at the ground so far down below us. One misstep and we could die, well, I don't know about that actually, Mary landed safely in the water, but will it still be there when we fall?

I cannot help but think that this could possibly be the last day of my life, and that's a shame. My thoughts are drowned out by the sound of the whistle blowing so loudly that it nearly deafens me and for one second, I am convinced that it had damaged my eardrums. It wasn't that loud when we were inside the train, then again, we had windows to block out the noise. Gripping the sides of the train harder, I concentrate on where to place my feet, praying that gravity and God are on our side. After a while, I am able to get a rhythm and I keep to it.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John are having their own discussion, though it was more of an argument. From the look on the latter's face, he looked like he wanted to toss him off a train.

"Don't worry, Watson, she's as safe as houses, she's with my brother," Sherlock shouts to John, speaking of Mary.

"I'm on my honeymoon!" John shouts angrily back at him, trying to land a kick, but that's a dangerous idea. "Why did you lead them here? Why did you involve us?"

"They're not here, for him. They're here for you!" I yell back, and he looks at me, confused; one of the soldiers sticks his head out of the carriage we just vacated. The grenade goes off and the soldier is flung out of the train. We hang on to the sides tighter as the shock waves go through the train. Sherlock opens another door and walks into another carriage occupied by an elderly couple.

"Good evening," he says, calmly, and walks over to the other side of the carriage and opens the door.

The elderly woman gasps as her husband runs over to her and holds her close to him, neither of them sure what to make of the scene in front of them. "I think you'll find second class is more comfortable, coast is clear," he says as he moves out of the way of the door and gestures to the door for the couple. They don't move, or maybe they're too shocked to do so. "To the South! Quick, march!" He urges and the couple run out of the compartment as we climb in. Sherlock closes the one door while John and I close the other, and then two of us turned around to see him on the floor on his back. "Lie down with me," he orders.

"Why?" asks John, annoyed and exasperated.

"I insist," he says and I gasp as he takes my arm and roughly brings me down to the floor and then pulls out his pipe and a match and starts to light it. John rolls his eyes and lays on the other side of him.

"What are we doing down here?" I demand, terrified and annoyed.

"We are waiting. I am smoking," he replies, nonchalantly. Just a few seconds later, bullets begin to fly everywhere. We curl up on our sides, close to each other; and through all of this, he's still smoking his pipe. "Patiently waiting," he adds, reaching into his pocket and pulls out a small gun.

"For what?" John shouts over the gunfire and then looks at the gun in Sherlock's hand.

"Your window of opportunity. Make it count!" Then the gunfire stops and John gets up and aims the gun through the hole the gunfire has made and sees the gunman. He fires the gun and the bullet hits the man in the arm, who happens to drop an active grenade. Then another gunman comes up to the machine gun and continues to shoot at us, debris of wood fly across our faces and we cover our heads to protect ourselves. A few minutes later, it all stops which could only mean that there are less of them now, or they're all dead; at least we're all alive, that's what really matters.

* * *

"Who'd have known that honeymooning in Brighton was such a dangerous notion?" Sherlock asks John, who a=isn't even looking at or acknowledging him, but instead, fiddles with one of the frayed edges of his blue and brown striped scarf, the one that Mary made for him, twirling it between his fingers. I can hear the clacking of the wheels moving beneath my seat, the familiar humming is a pleasant sound to my ears and calms my rattling mind. I am sure how long the machine has been moving, but we are out into the English countryside and it shouldn't be long until we reach the ferry to take us to France.

"Is that what this is about?"

"By you admission, you'd never enjoyed it there."

"I never been to Brighton!"

"Or...your just too fragile to remember at present."

"Oh, shut up! Tell me that my wife's safe!" John demands.

"I promise. As I said I timed it perfectly," Sherlock replies firmly.

"Why were Mary and I targeted at all?"

"Excellent question. The answer is two fold."

"He's after us because of you, Holmes."

"I'm afraid you must bear half the responsibility."

"Here it comes."

"Had you and Mary had not not been so hellbent on your wedding, we could've solved this case."

"There it is...it's my fault now." John mutters.

"But it does seem that our partnership has not yet run its course. Watson, if you could be bothered to see this through to the end, I will never again ask you to assist me." he says to John, softly and his friend stares out in front of him for a second before he turns to look at him, staring into his pleading brown eyes.

"Once more unto the bridge." John knows that he doesn't have any other choice in the matter and gives a resigned sigh, raising his pointer finger in the air.

"That's the spirit! Now to the question...it is so deliciously complicated. You maybe asking yourself? What does a criminal mastermind want with a simple gypsy fortune teller? It's about her brother, I tell you. When we find him and we must-"

"Wait...where is it we're going?" John asks.

"Paris, the most sensible honeymoon destination of all," Sherlock replies, dramatically and I actually find myself smiling at these words.

* * *

After the coach drops us off, we pay our fares and head off quickly towards a sign leading in the right direction. The sight of a dock is not exactly a pleasant one. Men are bustling about, smoke is wafting through the air, the smell of fish and sweat fill my nose even when I put my handkerchief over it.

First, my legs begin to feel as wobbly as I board the ship, then, the nervousness travels straight to the bottom of my stomach. I know that I am just excited, or more like nervous, but all my nerves pile on top of each other.

"Miss Adler?" Sherlock says and I look up. His warm hand reaches out for my upper arm, sending it a slap of reassurance. "You'll be alright. There will be plenty of women on board for you to talk to, and the men will be there with steady arms to guide you."

"Paris?" John laughs behind a cloud of smoke as we find a place to sit. "Surely you're not taking me on a honeymoon, are you? Pushing Mary off of a train…" John chuckles, but it is not without a sour edge.

Sherlock pauses thoughtfully before he finally speaks. "It was not something that I wanted to do, but rather had to do. You know I did it for her own safety."

"So why Paris, then?"

"Peaches," Holmes replies. "Outside the city at Montlicon, there's a gypsy camp famous for its dried fruit, especially peaches." He pulls out a pouch from his suitcase and shows a dried up peach to John.

The sound of the boat's horn is released, and as it jolts into motion, I find that my stomach does the same. Next thing I know, my torso flings itself over the edge. I can feel all of the weakness inside of me pouring right out into the water.

It takes several minutes before the wave passes and I slowly lift my head. This is the worst part of traveling, let me tell you. Trains I can deal with, but boats, not so much.

John joins me, his hand rests on my back. "That's it, stay where you are. Let your stomach relax." His rough hands gently run through my hair to pull it away from my face. My eyes flicker shut as the heat on my face rises and I slowly and clumsily make my way back to the bench in silence, breathing in the smells of the sea, a mixture of salt and a small dose of fish.

One of my side interests has always been astrology; when I was a little girl, my mind was filled to the brim with wonderful and beautiful ideas about what the twilight hour might bring, and I would lay on the grass outside the mansion and often staying up until midnight to see if I could find any of the constellations or planets that I read about in the science books that Sherlock would occasionally let me borrow.

Here, away from the busy and noisy city, the stars appear to be clearer and brighter and the odd nocturnal animal shuffles around in the shadows of trees hunting for food, bats soar into the darkened sky. Eventually, I grew out of such fantasies in which fairies played in the fields and danced around the firelight, and reached the age where things like that were beyond me, but that doesn't mean that it feels any less magical.

Inch by inch, I begin to make my way closer towards Sherlock. I think he may have noticed after a while, but I do not stop my movements, admittedly, this dress is not quite appropriate for this sort of weather, although in a few months time, it will be summer. As soon as I'm close enough, I do not hesitate to place my head onto his shoulder. My side is pushed against his, our body heat rebounding off of one another.

My eyelids are beginning to drop and sleep wraps me in her embrace. I feel something soft upon my hair. At first it's a hand: soft, gentle, almost hesitant; the next feeling is a pair of lips, gently kissing my curls. Slowly, my fingers curl around his, feeling his cold skin gradually warming.

Groggily, I find the blanket and put it around us, then smile to myself. Who knows how many more moments like this we have left? Things will undoubtedly change very soon, but right now, I will let the future unfold as it may, and only focus on the fingers tangled up in mine. For the first time in ten years, I can sleep peacefully.

If only for a little while.


	9. Chapter 9

"Do you think we should…forget the past? Start anew?" Sherlock muses in a raw whisper. I am laying in a bed in a stuffy cabin below deck with a cold cloth compressed against my aching head, begging to be off of this boat or for sleep to take over me, one or the other would be alright. Before he came to visit me, I'd tried reading a book, but my eyes couldn't focus on the words, they just blurred until they looked like nonsense, so I set it aside and just laid there in silence.

The moonlight trickles in through the tiny window, which is only loosely covered by plain checkered curtains. The horn of the boat is much quieter now, and I suspect that most of the passengers here are sound asleep.

Doctor Watson has been in and out bringing me water and medicine, and replacing the cold cloth with a new one.

"Yes, maybe we should…" I sigh and eye him sadly, feeling a bit pathetic at the state of my illness. "That would be the best, I suppose, but neither of us wants to…"

"I'm willing to." He looks determined; and we exchange mutual smiles. "But let's face it, we're both driven by what we want; we wouldn't keep that promise for long."

Chuckling, I couldn't agree more; he's right; it could never work out between us; one of us would give up in the end and the other would suffer for it. I roll off from the side of the bed. "Trust me, this is what's best for all of us." I slip on my shoes and begin to walk around the bed but his voice stops me short.

"Miss Adler, you're obviously not thinking correctly. Physically, your mind and body are weak. I've seen the same eyes in different people, I know that look. It's the look of a woman who wants to prove that she can handle things on her own and not have to depend on anyone else."

"Isn't that what I'm doing right now? I didn't think that I'd be spending half of the trip to Paris seasick with you on my deathbed, but here we are."

Sherlock cracks a bemused grin as I sit back down on the bed again. "You're not dying, Irene. I was seasick the first time I was on a boat, too. I will have Watson come and give you some more medicine in a moment." He places his cold hand on my forehead. "We're almost there."

His fingers brush back my hair and ties it into a ribbon he collected from my suitcase. I groan as I lay my seasick head back down on the pillow. "You can leave now if you wish to, I can manage. I'm trying to make it easier for you."

"If you wish to make it easier for you, let me aid you in your illness." I say nothing, but as the ship continues to sway back and forth, my stomach refuses to cooperate. "You need water. You're breaking out into a sweat and need hydration."

I shake my head firmly and after a minute, he speaks, but in a much more serious and high pitched tone. "Irene, this is Watson speaking…" I feel a smile instantly crack out onto my face. He sounds nothing like him. "I am insisting that you let me fetch you some water and lighter blankets."

"You're not very convincing," I whisper, hearing the laugh in my voice.

"At least you're smiling," Sherlock mumbles sincerely. "That's a good sign. But if you insist, as soon as I retrieve your medicine for you and then I will stay next to you and it will help you forget about the water."

"I'm sorry," I mumble, reaching for his wrist and frowning deeply. .

"It's not your fault that you're sick." He kisses the top of my feverishly hot head and as I close my eyes again, I hear the wooden floor boards creak while he walks away.

* * *

When I open my eyes what seems to be hours later, the sun that was shining just a day before, has disappeared behind the thick gray clouds that are full of rain. I need to blink a couple of times so that my eyes can adjust to the blinding white light of the sky. I am resting my chin on my hand, but it's starting to fall asleep, so I slowly sit up, put my hands on my lap and look around.

It takes me a while to reassure myself that the images I've just seen were nothing but a dream and recall what exactly happened between the rest of the boat ride and now, it is all a bit of a blur, although I do remember getting into the carriage and trying to recover from being so sick that I thought I was going to die.

Never have I had that bad or a reaction to being on a boat before, the worst has always been a bit of queasiness; I won't go into full detail because I don't think you want to read a whole chapter of me retching and all that at this particular moment, what was I talking about earlier?

France is beautiful, just as I remember it to be. I am even more thrilled when John informs me that we are heading into its countryside, rather than rushing towards the hectic city, that is if we can somehow manage to find our way without a guide. We did have a map, but unfortunately, the wind quickly carried it away from us. Therefore, we must rely on our own sense of direction and the signs pointing towards the different towns.

Greeted by miles and miles of grassy hills overlooking the river, I am in awe. I am no artist, but even the great painters of all time could never do justice to the mental picture I was capturing with my eyes and locking into my mind. Paper doesn't have the ability to bring you the sound of birdsong in the trees, or the smells of pine

We ride up the long and winding pathways in an exposed coach, led by a beautiful black horse. The only problem is, we're all crammed in beside one another in a single row.

My hair continues to fly about freely in the fresh air which my lungs yearn for, it's also peaceful all the way out here. I suppose I don't blame the gypsies for wanting to live the way they do. Surely it's not sanitary, but at least they get a sense of nature. You miss that when you live in a cesspool like London.

"I am not used to so much quiet, I'm sure that Mary would love it here." John mutters with a whip of the reigns. "We could find or build a nice little cottage by the lake and that way we could sit on the porch with a cup of tea and watch the day go by."

Sherlock lets out a fake laugh before redirecting his attention towards the mountains. "Trust me, Watson, if you were to live all the way out here, you would find it appealing at first, but you'd grow bored of it sooner or later."

John grunts and pops his collar further up his ears, then shakes his head irritably. I sit silently between them, turning to look at Sherlock again. His eyes are swollen and red, as if he has been crying. I've never known him to be the crying type, so the most logical explanation is that he's tired. His eyes close and he leans back against the seat a little.

As soon as we arrive at the campsite, my eyes widen in rapture. I had only met one gypsy in my entire life, not counting Simza, but my aunt was quick to pull me away from the seemingly sweet gentleman. Seeing their actual home, that eccentric universe, and hearing the music captivates me.

"Wake up." John's voice snaps him from his quick doze. I am about to tell him to let Sherlock rest, but suddenly, his fingers press against the bridge of his nose as the carriage pulls to a stop. "We're here."

"Brace yourself. We're about to be violated." Violated? What could he possibly mean by that? John gives him a warning glance, tells him not to be so cynical. Distrust is natural when you're in a strange place filled with strange people, but we're here on a case, at least try to be decent.

"They're taking my luggage!" John shouts above the noise of laughter. All three of us are being pushed ceremoniously towards a giant camp of tents, fires, chairs, and animals. John seemed to be having the worst of luck, but that was most likely because of his indifference. He struggled to fight against a gypsy reaching for his belongings, but eventually his strength won out.

Sherlock casually smirks to himself. "Laugh them away, Watson! I have her bag." He proudly lifts the bag trunk above his head. After announcing the same thing in French, the case is being taken away.

"Well, not now you don't." I pant, chuckling darkly as I struggle to keep my footing. Turning around, I smile at a group of gypsy children chasing a little white goat who is running around and bleating cheerfully and perhaps a little annoyed at his pursuers.

"Irene's right, you had her bag." John's face twists into one of displeasure as a mass of people begin to prod at his sleeves, peeling his only jacket from him without any struggle. "… Now they have my coat."

Sherlock smiles, trying to keep from laughing at his friend's current situation. His eyes lock onto mine and a grin breaks out briefly on my face, at least I still have my men's clothes on and left any valuables at home. I should probably have given John a fair warning, but with all that was going on on the train and my embarrassing spell of nausea on the boat, it slipped my mind.

As we reach the largest fire in the camp, the air begins to grow stuffier with the amount of smoke in the air; the smells of damp wood and some sort of meat greet my nostrils. When they finally let go of us,

I shuffle a bit closer towards the smoke, without any fear of being sacrificed, and bring my hands closer.

"Where is Madame Simza?" John speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable as though the French gypsies could not understand English. They all glance at one another, then at John, smiling in amusement, which tells me they must understand some words, but he tries again in French. "Où est Simza?"

The man, whose face is nearly as black as the burnt wood, points towards someone. "This is Simza." The three of us turn to see the spectacle, unpleased to find a sleeping elder holding a goose and nearly strangling the poor thing. The animal honks indignantly and flaps his wings, trying to escape.

My head falls onto my shoulder in bewilderment and slight pity for him. I quickly slip over and gently pry the man's fingers off of the goose's neck and another honk sounds in gratitude. He's obviously this man's pet because instead of jumping down, he then proceeds to curl up on the man's lap.

"I'm pretty sure you're not Simza, are you?" I ask him. He honks once again. "I'll take that as a no."

Joining Sherlock's side, he seems to be enjoying himself, and we watch as John tries ever so hard to remain patient and sane with the group. He's coming close to snapping someone's head off when the gypsy man begins to laugh, proud of his joke.

"Sim is a goose." John slowly nods his head and he turns to me, as if he's saying that we came all the way here to talk with a goose and a low hum of chuckles break out in the circle surrounding us.

"I am Sim!" The man proclaims and his fingers suddenly go for John's throat. "Nice scarf!" He gasps in admiration as he begins to peel the fabric away. "I like!"

John's fist goes flying towards the man's nose and he's soon lying flat on his back. Everyone stares at him worriedly and it's clear that besides me, no one was expecting him to lash out when all the man was doing was having a bit of fun.

No one dares to laugh now, a sudden quiet falls over them. John only shoots me a sullen look as he glances around him, uncomfortably, and perhaps a bit embarrassed, and wraps my hand around the hidden gun in his pocket, ready for anything to go horribly wrong. I can tell how tired he is and how the main thing on his mind is simply wanting to return to his lonely and probably frightened fiancée. I trust that she is in good hands with Mycroft, but there's no sense of telling him that right now.

Except Sherlock begins to erupt into a fit of giggles as I reach to help the fallen man from the ground. At least one of us is showing some dignity. "You're not helping, you know."

"Do I ever?" His lips spread into a bemused smirk and no matter how much I want to whack him and John upside the head for their lack of decorum, I can't help but laugh a little.

"That's true enough." Rolling my eyes, I approach him. "At least let them know why you are here, they won't see you as being so suspicious."

Apparently his French is much better than mine, because as soon as he says his next words, the crowd seems concerned by his words and Simza, the woman from the bar approaches us, still as beautiful and headstrong as the day we met. The look in her eyes tells us that she is neither confused nor overly thrilled to see us; if anything, a glimpse of hope shimmers in her amber eyes.

Perhaps she already knows why we're here; helping her brother is clearly all that matters to her. Upon seeing me and my attire, she raises her eyebrows, but dismisses whatever thoughts she has about me. She mutters quietly in our direction. "You hungry?"

"Famished," Sherlock replies and only then am I aware that I haven't eaten anything since being on the train, knowing my stomach wouldn't be able to handle much more than tea. But now, it growls loudly. I sigh in embarrassment and see Simza's eyes light up in amusement.

With a small wag of her finger, she motions for us to continue into her tent. Her long, patched skirt swings behind her like a warrior's cape, or like a sail in the wind. I am just as intrigued by her as the day we met and I can't take my eyes off of her, if she catches me staring, she doesn't acknowledge it, instead, she lifts the tent flap for us. "Go inside," she says softly. "I will join you with Tamas in a minute."

Tamas must be the one John punched in the face, I think to myself as I glance over my shoulder to see him glancing at me apologetically. He seems no worse for wear; and despite how hard that punch was, I'm surprised that I can't see any bruises. I smile at him and nod my head before going inside the tent.

"Will John be alright?" I whisper and Sherlock clears his throat, stepping back again. What's going on in that funny head of his? Why does he keep pulling away from me?

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He's been through much worse thanks to me. It won't be long until he's back to his regular self." Pressure cracks inside of his voice and there's panic dancing in his eyes. He paces a little while in the tent, and beneath the dirt lining his face, I can sense a fragility in him. I can only assume what he's thinking about because those same questions are going through my mind.

What if we don't find Simza's brother in time? What if something happens to him before we can intervene? Losing someone can crack and shatter even the strongest people.

Both of us are lost from our hushed whispers as Simza and Tamas join our side. Tamas and John look far from pleased with each other, but once the former's eyes shift to me, his shoulders drop and they both seem to calm down. Sherlock merely nods his head and follows the two gypsies further inside.

Sherlock stops in his tracks momentarily, looking around the place before leaning a bit closer towards me. The other three begin to speak without hearing us. His fingers lazily begin to ruffle his hair, a nervous tick.

"Do you think there's a chance that she has any clean clothes that you can wear?"

I manage a small smile, "Why? Are you suddenly finding me unattractive dressed up like a man?" Sherlock leans closer to me to whisper in my ear.

"Not at all, I'm just wondering what you'd look like in one of those loose-fitting dresses." Inwardly, I feel my mind traveling and thinking unholy thoughts; I pray that the blush on my cheeks isn't as obvious as it feels. I squirm a little and this only encourages him to smile.

"I didn't know you were so eager to get me out of my clothes." Though a fire is burning in the pit of my stomach, I stand my ground. My chin lifts itself a bit higher and the look in his eyes and the grin on his face tells me more than words ever could.

"Well, what do you know? Just our luck!"

Leaning over the pile with my hands on my hips, I regard the assortment of different sizes and colours of clothes, considering my choices carefully. Something tells me that we're going to be doing a lot of running therefore I will be needing an ensemble that allows movement.

In the end up going for a white blouse with long sleeves and a short brown skirt. They're a little warm when I pick them up, which means they must have been washed and then hanged to dry on a clothesline near the fire.

The boys quickly find something suitable also and then we all search for somewhere to change separately. Moments later, we are all properly dressed and ready for business.

"Sit here." Simza's voice distracts both of us from our conversation, allowing Sherlock to breathe out an enormously dramatic sigh as once again, I am squashed in between him and John. "This is for you." She holds a plate out towards us with a wary, almost uneasy smile.

My hands politely take the chipped plate away from her, eyeing the large, suspicious bits of meat on it; She then wanders back to her seat. Tamas sits alongside her and watches me carefully. None of them have a good reason to trust us and no doubt she's aware of the incident that took place only moments ago.

"Is this…?" John begins, looking up at her.

"Hedgehog," she says calmly from the cloaked caravan steps. Her arms flop lazily over her knees, and she sends me a smirk of amusement at my shock. I raise a suspicious eyebrow at her and she does the same. If she's trying to poison us with Hedgehog, I won't be surprised if I collapse right now; she's crafty and smart enough to know how to rid herself of her enemies. "It is a traditional goulash of my people."

"Hedgehog." My lip twitches nervously, and I only have to force myself to push away the poor creature's face from my mind and avoid offending our hostess as I scoop a spoonful in my mouth, preparing for the worst, however, much to my surprise, it's not that bad, a little bit bitter, could have used some salt, but otherwise alright. "It is honestly a delight. Send your cooks my thanks."

Simza only manages a diminutive grin, but I could tell that she believes me. Maybe she is warming up to us after all. I see her relax a little and for some time, no one says anything. With my plate set aside, I shudder internally, hoping that as satisfying as it was, I'd never have to eat it again, especially now that I am getting a strong aftertaste, but Sherlock on the other hand gnaws away at his like it's the best meal he's had in ages.

"Madam, this is a glorious hedgehog goulash." Sherlock's words even take John by surprise. "I can't remember ever having had better."

John, who doesn't find the exotic dish appealing at all, is now pushed past his limit. I can see it in his eyes before anyone else can, and shudders ring out all over my body as he clamps his fork down onto his plate. "Do tell me, when was the last time you had a hedgehog goulash?"

"I told you, Watson!" Sherlock's head bobs sarcastically. "I can't remember."

"Oh!" John chuckles bitterly beneath his breath. His voice softens as he leaned closer towards his best friend. "Then perhaps you've repressed it."

"Why are you two making all of this fuss?" I grumble and from the corner of my eye, my host and hostess frown at each other and shift uncomfortably. "You are like an old married couple and although you have plenty of other logical things to argue about, you choose this."

Sherlock seems to find both of these comments amusing as he lets out a snarky chuckle. "You see, that's where we differ. Unlike you, I repress nothing."

John sets his plate down. "Perfectly normal." Pathetically, I roll my eyes and listen to the two of them argue, much to my shame. Here we are trying to make a good impression, and it appears as if I'm being the most mature and actually serious about the task at hand.

"How dare you be rude to this woman," Sherlock grabs John's arm with warning in his voice. "… who has invited us into her tent… offered us her hedgehog…"

"Says the man who throws women from trains."

"Can you both please behave and stop being so immature?" My voice is not restrained. "I know it is very difficult for the pair of you, but do manage to try. In case you have forgotten the reason why we're here, I will be more than happy to bring you up to speed."

"Who are you three?" Simza's voice makes us all put on grinning teeth.

Sherlock lets his shoulders rise with a modest shrug. "Concerned citizens."

Her stare is sharp, demanding and almost cold enough to freeze me on the spot, but she's trying to be strong. "Why did someone try to kill me?"

John lets go of his previous argument, or maybe he just sets it aside for now and then takes care of the situation at hand. "Your brother has become involved with a very dangerous man," John continued. "Who clearly believes that René has told you something that you shouldn't know."

"I don't know anything." Simza sounds strong with her words, but someone who is innocent doesn't sound powerful; normally, they sound scared, a tremor in their voice, maybe tears, but then again, it depends on the individual person.

"It's alright, you can trust us. We're not here to harm you, or your brother. We're here to help, but we can't do that without you." My attempt to be comforting must have some influence on her because she sighs deeply.

"I've been looking for him for over a year. That was why I was in London." Her attitude begins to shift as she opens up. The actual worry is coming through, and the love for her brother is obvious. "That was the last place anybody saw him."

"It's clear that your brother loves you." Sherlock's affectionate words make my heart skip a beat. "He'd never send you a message that would put you in harm's way." Sherlock lifts the letter up slowly. "Any information, therefore, would be, by default, unintentional."

"Has your brother sent you anything else?" John steps in, setting his plate down on a nearby trunk and not taking his eyes off of Tamas, they seem to have put aside their previous argument, too. At least for the time being.

"Just a few drawings."

"Let's just see what they have to tell us." Sherlock is clearly going somewhere with this; Simza reaches up and takes them from another trunk. Passing them to Tamas, who brings them over to us.

"Unusual choice of paper…" Sherlock continues. "Thicker gauge, designed for a printing press." He begins to flick through the sketches, and I watch on with curiosity.

"A lighthouse?" My finger slams onto the top photo with a heavy thud and I am already thinking of places where there could be lighthouses, of course that could be anywhere. Namely near the coastline.

"Could be," John replies, handing it to me so that I could get a better look. "It's also the same stock as the letter."

I press it briefly to my nose before pulling away in disgust. My brows crinkle together at the smell. "They smell musty. Must have been stored somewhere cold and damp. What's that? Blood?"

Sherlock runs his finger of the stain then raises it to his mouth and licks it. "Wine. So a wine cellar located near a printing press. That should narrow it down."

"He said he would never go back," Tamas says to her.

"There is a wine cellar used by the anarchist group, La Pavert'. René was close to their leader," she replies.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"A bomb maker," John states.

"Claude Ravache," Sherlock clarifies. "We sampled someone his work last week."

"I was part of the movement so was René until it became too extreme for us. Ravache knows me. If my brother's back there, he will see us. He will send a message," She says to Tamas. He responds in French then walks out of the tent. She turns to us and translates, presumably for my sake. "He says he will set the meeting with Ravache." She grabs a bottle of wine and drinks from it.

Sherlock sits and whispers to us, "Whatever you do, don't let these gypsies make you drink." He stretches his hand out and I shrug as Simza hands him the bottle. He took a long swig and Simza glances over at the three of us. Simza nods toward the musicians outside and John starts to get up.

"For God's sake, Watson, don't dance. It will be the death of you." He takes another drink from the bottle and then holds it out to me but I shake my head. I take the bottle from him and drink two mouthfuls, at first it's like fire, like a dragon breathing down my throat, but that feeling only lasts for a minute before it settles in my stomach. I place it down before I was tempted to drink anymore of the stuff, then Simza offers her hands to John and I and leads us outside.

"You know what happens when you dance!" He shouts after us, but we are already too far away to hear him.

The music starts and I have officially lost all control of my body; my hands begin to twist until they are high into the air, like a true Romani. As for my feet, they suddenly have a mind of their own as they make their way around the grounds. I can hear the fiddles getting faster, their notes nearly incomprehensible from the next. I am probably a mess, but I'm I having too much fun to care. With this feeling everything seems a little easier. My cheeks are warm thanks to the alcohol and the fire, and my hair is flying everywhere.

Laughing, I push my hair away from my face as John is being lifted onto another man's shoulders and being spun around. I've only been to three formal balls in my entire existence, one with the Holmes family, who didn't find it enjoyable whatsoever, and two others with my aunt, and they were gentle and polite and it felt as if people were pressured to fill the quiet with forced laughter and conversations. Things at the gypsy camp are not gentle and polite they are wild and fun, carefree and real. Everyone is smiling, laughing and enjoying themselves. People are dancing from their souls, not their instruction books and it's as if they are one big family.

Simza and I find each other in the fray; her moves are far from graceful, but at the same time, it's just as mesmerizing to watch her swaying her hips and moving her arms in just the right way. She sashays over to me and takes my hands, leading me to where she was dancing moments ago.

Lost in the cheerful atmosphere, all of my troubles slip away, just for a moment, and I allow myself to act silly, to let myself go and truly be apart of this world. Feeling something tapping against my shoulder, I turn around and find Sherlock standing next to me. He looks around for a moment then raises his hand out towards me. "Might I have this dance?" He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"I thought you'd never ask." Smiling, he wraps his arm around my waist while the other hand holds my right hand and I place my left hand on his shoulder as we start dancing, spinning around without a care in the world and moving faster as one fast-paced tune slides into another.

I wish I could stay here forever, but unfortunately, we have lots more important things to worry about.


	10. Chapter 10

"I think it's safe to say that I won." I brag, my words slur slightly.

"Please, if I had held my breath for a second longer I would have beaten you, my record is ten minutes."

"No. You can't hold your breath for ten minutes, you would go brain dead."

"Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, it could be five minutes."

"How can you do it for five minutes? Unless you're under water."

"It was underwater."

"You know that neither of you are making sense now, right?" John says, walking behind us. Out of the three of us, he is in the best condition.

Let's just say that we really enjoyed the evening and may have drank a bit too much, despite my statement earlier about one of us having a clear head if we want to continue working on this case without a hiccup. I'm just thankful that the meeting is scheduled for tomorrow night rather than now.

We're both giggling hysterically, stumbling across the grass and once or twice each of us nearly collapse, but we steady ourselves and catch our breath.

John is not even displeased; he was saying earlier that this whole thing was much better than his stag party. He bids the two of us goodnight and goes into his tent, leaving the two of us to fend for ourselves.

"Sherlock…" I groan. He attempts to steady me in his hands, though he's in no better shape than I am. My feet begin to trip out beneath me and I grunt, letting my arms go limp at my side as my head droops down his chest. "I'm tired, Sherlock. I just want to lie down. Can I do that? Where is a bed?"

Sherlock slides his hand in mine, leading me further and further away from the warm fire. Simza passes by, carrying blankets and looks on, amused and I can feel another burst of laughter coming on.

"Sim! I want to marry both you and Sherlock. We can all share the tent together." One of my hands pathetically reach toward her. "Come closer! I can hardly reach you."

She shakes her head, still smiling. "Well, as nice as that would be and as beautiful as you are, I think you need time to sleep on that decision."

"John! You and Mary have to come to our wedding! It won't be the same without you."

My head falls lazily against his arm, and my eyes can barely stay open. Shuffling my feet along, I finally reach a golden opening. One foot carefully slinks inside. The rest of my body does not follow as swiftly, but nonetheless I manage to find my way in without further assistance.

Nothing stands inside besides a small sheet and a dingy old trunk. Despite the minor appearance, the scene looks horribly inviting and I just want to sleep. Is that too much to ask?

My first thought if I try to go to sleep is what I might dream about when I eventually drift off. I am prone to nightmares and night terrors because of the things I have endured, though it's my own fault for making such bad choices and going against my better judgement. You see? I am so confused by my own thoughts that now I am talking rubbish to you. If I do this, please ignore me if you wish, and proceed with the story.

Quivering, I stumble into bed and toss a nightdress over my head, then crawl into the small, makeshift bed and bury myself under the blanket, protecting myself from the outside world.

Hours have passed; I toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing works. Once, Doctor Watson told me that I have something called insomnia, and that's what keeps me awake; all of my thoughts bouncing off each other in my head until they drive me to the point where I'm crazy and desperate to get out of bed and do other things. Usually if I can't sleep, I will read a book by candlelight, but since I don't have a candle with me, I can rule that out.

in a single bound, I am on my feet and placing my clawed hands on the side of my head, cursing under my breath, then I step outside of my tent and out into the fresh air, which is said to help you feel tired or sleepy; someone is sitting by the fire and I am not surprised to find out that it's Sherlock. This is just what I need to distract me.

"Can't sleep?" I ask, sitting next to him and leaning my hands forward so that they are nearly touching the fire. He doesn't respond. I look over at him and he has his eyes closed and his hands folded in the prayer position. He slowly opens his eyes and then turns to look at me, a small smile on his face, and laughs humorlessly.

"I haven't had a proper night's sleep in years, Irene. There's too much going on up here." He points to his head, and I nod, in understanding. "We both have that in common, don't we?" He stands up and then begins to pace back and forth along the tent, bringing his hands up to ruffle his hair, he does that when he's nervous or anxious.

"It's not so bad, at least we don't have to worry about nightmares," I reply lamely, wishing there was something I could do to calm him down, when I can barely keep my own nerves under control. "But you don't have to go through it alone, remember? John is here with us, and I am here, too, and Simza knows the land, she can help us as well. You have a whole group of people who are going to be with you every step of the way."

"Why are you here, though? What we're doing is dangerous, it could cost you your life."

"You don't think I've been in these sorts of situations before? I'm here because when someone tells me that I can't do something, it motivates me even more."

"That's the Irene I know." He smiles a little and I smile back.

"Also, I come because you would be lost without me." I stand up and walk over to him, wringing my hands together, "and because I need something to do rather than sit around in a hotel all day fearing for my life. If I have a change to do one thing right in my life, then I will do that and I will imagine that I am a soldier preparing to go to battle with my fellow comrades."

"You're one of the bravest soldiers I know." I walk into my tent and still feel him behind me.

"Your tent is that way."

"Yes, but someone has to look out for you." The response is more of a factual statement than a sincere word of advice, but somewhere behind it, a smirk was trying its hardest not to slip through and laughter comes out regardless. Wincing in annoyance, I slowly myself towards his crossed legs and dropped my head into the open pit, feeling tears instead of laughter.

"Go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

All I can do is nod. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm pathetic. When his hands begin to brush through my loose hair, when his rough lips brush against my forehead, and when I hear the soft humming, the sweetness of his heart is clear to me.

* * *

Awaking the next morning after a night of alcohol gives me such a pain that my hands cannot not stop shaking. My head is pounding and at the first glimpse of sunlight, a headache is drilling into my skull. It's as if I'm having an out of body experience.

Though it's not either of those things that are making me feel so horrible, it's the fact that I've woken up terribly and utterly alone. Battered, old blankets are wrapped around me, but I had fallen asleep with the sensation of warm arms keeping me close. Those arms were no longer beside me.

What if they've left and left me here?

No, they are in the same shape I am so I doubt that either of us will be going anywhere for a while.

I instantly shoot up from my makeshift bed, my eyes trying desperately not to blur and twist the whole room. My hands firmly pushed me from the ground and into the empty space of the tent. There is a commotion outside, but the voices are all foreign. I cannot hear the nervous pitches of Doctor Watson, nor the sarcastic remarks of his partner.

My eyes briefly trail down to my fingertips. I can still feel his in mine; lingering longer than acceptable for an unmarried woman. Rough and cracked, but still gentle and comforting.

Time is of the essence, and I curse quite loudly as daylight hits me with a force that swears that even Mother Nature is prepared to taunt me, but I squint my eyes and continue my search. A few of the gypsies saw my rough state and I am greeted with a mix of cheerful waves, glances of concern and a hint of mocking chuckles.

"Does she have a clue of what's going on? We can't wait much longer and she's not even dressed properly."

Madame Simza. I recognize her heavy accent any day. My head snaps at the first sign of her voice and sure enough, there she stood with her heavily draped arms crossed firmly over her chest. The look on her face was not necessarily one of displeasure, but I know that she's not going to allow anymore nonsense from us.

"There you are! Remind me never to consume another drip of alcohol for the rest of my life. Also, wonderful morning, isn't it?" A small chirpy laugh comes from my lips.

"It will be… once we actually leave, but first let's get you some bread. That should help the hangover a little bit."

I'd never slept in a tent before; the rain sounds much different compared to when it rains and I hear it tapping on a corrugated metal roof or glass as I am accustomed to. I'm just glad that I cannot hear any thunder or see any lightning, or else I would be a lot less keen on spending the next few hours out in the wilderness.

The countryside awaits me; In this expanse of green there are more hues than anyone has ever named, yet here they are for any eye to see. The land rolls as it always has, as if it feels that time and space are one thing, that it rolls through the ages as much as to the horizon. Over it is laid a path, one that branches through the open landscape, and as I begin to walk there is a frisson of joy for all the choices to come, each one of them laden with discoveries.

Simza is leaning over the sizzling pan, watching meat cook. For my sake, I hope it's not anything too exotic. The hedgehog goulash was good, but I am thankful that we have something more suitable.

"Don't worry, it's bacon, there's a market not that far from here, some of the boys went out before sunrise to buy some."

John joins us then and sits down on the log beside her, and nods a short greeting to Tamas; the two of them seem to have made peace with each other since yesterday's incident. I am about to ask where Sherlock is when he comes and takes the space next to me and I continue eating my eggs, then gingerly pick up a piece of the bacon and I'm glad I don't have to ask how they obtained it.

Most of our meal is eaten in silence, but we are soon finished and Sherlock stands, taking the plate with him and I do the same; the words from last night echo in my head.

All I've been thinking about is last night when we were dancing and how nothing I've done with anyone else had never been as personal, romantic or intimate as that. On the other hand, if I'm being completely fair, most of my partnerships were short and I ended them before they had the chance to develop, so I guess I never would have known if I could have had a special something with someone.

I'm not sure if he's thinking the same thing or not. Up until now he's been unusually quiet. Usually that means he's deep in thought. His eyes are dark sunken as a gun-shot ship, and his hair is in need of a decent combing. Though I probably don't look much better.

Before I can ask him why, Simza's hands roughly toss me a ragged, green dress and when I look back up, she has disappeared behind the other makeshift seems as though she's back to her normally guarded self, but again, I don't blame her. The dress smells of firewood and spice, but it is better than my wine-drenched apparel that I had been wearing before.

Swiftly, I change my attire and head back into the center of the camp. Sherlock and John are nowhere to be seen. Part of me is worried. Another part remembers how they always show up when I need them the most.

"Much better," she states, a little more softer than before, then she takes my hand. "They're waiting for us in the cart."

"What cart?" I ask softly, rubbing the tiredness away from my heavy eyelids and she points into the distance where a large, wooden cart is waiting with an open door.

"Let's get going, oui?" Her hand roughly pulls me along as she takes off into a sprint and she laughs amusedly. It is so unexpected that I can't help but smile with her.

"I am probably going to look back on this later on and laugh at how much of an idiot I was."

"Idiot? No. Even though it was really funny that you practically proposed to me and Sherlock last night."

"I what?" My alarm makes her laugh even more.

"Don't worry, I knew that you were far past your limit, so I didn't take it seriously."

"How are the others not this bad?"

She shrugs. "They didn't drink four whole glasses of wine."

When we finally reach the edge of the cart, John lends me his hands to help crawl inside. He cracks a smile, though the dark rings beneath his oceanic eyes could not hide his lack of energy and almost instantly, the wheels kick into movement. I hear the horses whiney into motion as the wheels dig themselves into the dirt of the Earth.

I lean my head, which is now much better thanks to the bread, against the back of the wall, since there doesn't appear to be any proper seating. I feel like I am once again a fugitive escaping from the law, but this time, it's for a greater purpose.

John sits against the sturdy trunk of a tall tree, writing in a notebook; I have come to learn that he does this a lot when he and Sherlock are on a case.

"He likes to write everything down and put it in his book later."

"So he's your dictator?" I ask.

"You could say that."

"It's quite exciting, really. Soldier by day, author by night."

"I bet you only wish your life was that thrilling," he says jokingly and I smile back, taking a strand of my hair between my fingers; I don't know why, but this is so calming, so relaxing that while doing it, I am put under a sort of trance. It's like when I was a little girl and I had this bad habit of twirling my hair when I was thinking and Aunt Eliza, who always meant well, would slap my hand every time I did it, thinking that it would somehow break it, which it did.

"Yes, my life is hardly exciting, all I do is sit on my golden throne and wait for my next suitor to come along."

"Speaking of, are there any men in your life?"

"Well, since getting back to business I haven't had time for such pleasures, and besides, all of those relationships were meant to help me forget, help me to move on from you, what we had and could have had, because I knew that- Well, I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to the two of us, but I know how it feels and I felt it too, just like you. And look how it destroyed us both. We are born for love, in a world in which our emotions are communications, treasured and accepted. Yet in this world our emotions can be exploited, manipulated and weaponized."

It is meant to be a joke, but as soon as the words come out of my mouth, I sense such truth in them, that instead of laughing, I feel my cheeks begin to grow hot, my heartbeat and pulse accelerate and I am worried that I might be having another panic attack, but I'm not, I'm just a bit embarrassed that I just admitted my feelings once again to someone who can never return them.

"Irene?" This time it's Sherlock's voice that I hear and I am not in the mood. I had a rough night with barely enough sleep and I just revealed to a complete group of strangers that I have feelings for someone.

"Last night…" I start to mumble, and I can feel the embarrassment creeping up on me, so I bite my lip to keep from uttering the next few words. Simza and John have moved towards one another to engage in a conversation and thankfully they can't hear us.

I glance up at Sherlock and it only makes me feel more guilty. I am not sure how long he had stayed by my side, but wherever he was, he did not seem to get much sleep, just like he said last night. It wasn't just the evening before that had been making him weary. It was everything. Moriarty is still loose and planning another attack. René is nowhere to be found and me being here isn't making things easier for him.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock's voice trickles into my stream of thoughts. I look up at him with blank eyes, not wanting to confess my mind. "I can always tell when you're feeling guilty about something. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I was drunk," I mumble. "You were only slightly influenced."

Sherlock smirks. "Correct. I was not drunk. However, most people see my mind on a daily basis as something rather intoxicated and twisted. Not to mention, you were livelier last night than I have ever seen you."

This doesn't make me feel any better and I hang my head in shame. "This is the last thing you need right now; all of this stress is piling up on top of each other and I'm not doing anything to help, especially how I acted out and made you stay up with me."

Sherlock shook his head. "A bit of fun is exactly what I needed and you needed me, too."

My hair hangs in my face as my fingers twisted anxiously around one another in my lap and a gentle hand tucks it behind my ear.

"You have given me a night that I can look back and smile upon. You made me feel needed. Contrary to your opinions, I rather liked looking out for you."

Sherlock doesn't say anything else about it and neither do I. The path becomes less bumpy and so the smooth rolling of the wheels against the pavement lulls me and so, I let my head fall against the wall. Words from all moments of our time together started flooding into my head like waves.

Though my eyes are shut, and my chest lightly moves up and down, I do not fall asleep until we're about a quarter of the way there. These thoughts cannot and do not bring me to sleep. I only want to imagine a world where there is an 'us' where no one can hurt us anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

When I finally open my eyes again, it takes me a moment to figure out where I am; the memories all come rushing back to me, the camp, the forest, the cart; opening my eyes further, I see that the doors to the cart have been opened and John is standing just outside with a gleam in his eyes and I wonder how he could find the positive in such a dire situation. His hands are outstretched, reaching up towards me, ready to help me out of the cart.

"Are we here already?" I mutter, though it comes out as something resembling gibberish; curls of every size falling in front of my eyes; I push them back so I can see a little bit better. John laughs, not in a way that tells me he's making fun of me, but more asking me how I managed to mess up my hair so badly.

"We just arrived. How did you manage to sleep for so long? You must have been exhausted." I nod, not quite having got my wits about me yet. My hands shakily reach for his until he pulls me down swiftly and effortlessly and the ground crunches loudly beneath my boots; I take a deep breath and I spot a spurt of hot air coming out of my mouth and evaporating into the clouds.

Winter will soon be approaching and I dread the day when the temperature drops so low that people can't even stand outside for five seconds without feeling as if they will turn into an ice statue.

We walk alongside each other under the cover of night, and I can tell John is a bit nervous about everything by the warmth and moisture of his hands. I've also noticed that happening to me when I am in situations that I don't wish to be in; my hands would grow damp and my heartbeat speeds up. Everyone has the right to be nervous, I only wish that mine wouldn't show, unless I just think that everyone sees it. I take a deep breath and I relax just enough to focus.

While the others talk amongst themselves, I take in my surroundings; the first thing I notice is that the side of the cart reads, _'Les Sept Grenouilles'_ , and if my French is correct, that means, 'The Seven Frogs' and something dawns on me.

"Wait a minute! We were traveling in a stolen food vehicle?"

Simza only shrugs as she steps out, "I'm sure that in your criminal life you had your fair share of riding in food carts."

"Ha ha," I reply sarcastically and she playfully rolls her eyes walking ahead of me. "I did more than ride in foot carts, sister, I rode in royal carriages."

"That doesn't help your case any, you just admitted to two amateur detectives that you stole from royalty."

"Well, these 'amateurs' as you say, know my whole life story."

"Your little friend over there tried to read my fortune, but I think if he were to tell anyone else's, he'd be stumped."

"What do you mean amateur?" I ignore the statement; she grins and then quickens her pace so she's in the lead and so I have no chance of responding to her without having to shout.

"Irene, we're going in now."

Sherlock's voice draws my attention, and before I've even noticed, John and Simza are up ahead and we are left alone. His eyes are wide with concern and fatigue. This case is draining him, it doesn't take a great detective to see it. My fingers reach for his, where they send a light squeeze.

"Are you sure you want to come with us? You can always stay here and wait where it's safer."

_And let you do all the work yourselves, not a chance!_

"I'll be fine. Lack of sleep is what's eating away at me. Whatever happens, I can take care of it myself. I've had a pretty good teacher."

He smiles, and if I had blinked, I am sure that I would have missed it. "Yes, but I will watch out for you."

The Paris night is growing darker, the only light that can be seen are the ones coming out of the small shops and the street lamps that line the sidewalks and we turn to the entrance of an alleyway. We know that using the front entrance will immediately get us spotted, so we go around the back entrance and try to remain as inconspicuous as we can. I seize the chance to get a bit closer to him. He flinches slightly, but doesn't push me away or tell me that I'm too close.

"Perhaps that was a bit too brash of me," I admit, in case he might be thinking it.

"Sometimes you can't be controlled." A mischievous twinkle flickers in his eyes and he turns away with a grin before I have a chance to figure out the meaning of his words.

"Neither can you," I respond, feeling a twinkle coming into my eyes, too, "I suppose that's the reason we can never settle down, because if we stand still for two long, we might go mad and bolt without a second thought."

"You're right, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. We get a lot more accomplished bolting than standing still and waiting for the world to change its ways on its own."

Being in this alley with him makes me feel more comfortable, and less filthy and it makes me feel less lonely talking with him, even if it's about nothing at all.

When the driver escorts us up some stone steps, through the long halls and as we make our way into a restaurant kitchen, I can smell the food cooking, a blend of meat, cheese, bread and wine, and it makes my mouth water and my stomach growl impatiently.

It dawns on me how different this case is from the rest. Bronze pans and pots are boiling, clinking and clanking on every side of me. Cooks sit down to finish their meals as apprentices work until their backs sweat. Everything smells delicious, but I don't have time to properly calm my stress, before a tall French man grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me towards him. I nearly shriek in surprise, but when his hands begin to pat me up and down, I know I've reached my frustration's peak. My fingers swat at his wrists until I hear the smack of pain. He pulls his hand away in shock, his thick brows rising.

"Irene, they're just searching us to see if we have any weapons," Sherlock whispers and the man resumes his business, all the while to my displeasure. "Just-"

"Oi! My eyes are up here, lad!" I say a little too harshly and the man backs away, finally putting his hands up in surrender.

"She's a ball of fire, isn't she?" I hear Simza remark to Sherlock with a smile.

"You have no idea," he responds. Instead of acknowledging them, I look over at the plate of little dinner rolls that are in my reach and smile as I take it, but they are still piping hot so I sort of regret it.

"You don't mind, do you?" The chefs look up at me and shrug carelessly and I stuff it in my pocket for later.

After making absolutely certain none of us are carrying weapons, they gesture for us to go down to the wine cellar and we walked down a steep staircase. I can't see where I am going because it isn't very well-lit and that does not bode well for me since there could be large beetles, cobwebs, disease-ridden rats and all kinds of things that I don't want to run into.

We continue down the steps as pebbles chip off from the scraping of our feet. I can feel the air growing cooler as we travel further into the abyss, but when we reached the bottom, it is the coolest of all and I am glad that Simza lent us these warm clothes.

A man sits in the center of the room, his roughly patched jacket facing us without any interest. I cannot see Simza's or the man's face, but get the obvious feeling that neither are very thrilled.

"Still hiding in basements?" She curses with barely a bat of her eyelids. The gypsy woman seems to know exactly what she is doing the second she hits the floor. I shouldn't have expected anything different, you do not want to get on this woman's bad side.

"It's hard for me to get out these days," an elegant French voice replies; I stand closer to the staircase where I can lean against a wall and watch the scene unfold. Sometimes my life is more exciting than an opera. "I am happy to see you."

"I'm not here to see you." Simza's voice is so firm that she could have been mistaken for a world leader, or if circumstances were different, she could be a ruler, and I'm not ashamed to say that she secretly frightens me.

"I would rather share this moment..." The man continues in his native tongue, until suddenly he changes his mind. "... with your English friends."

His words catch me slightly off guard, but not my partners. They have little interest in the speaker. Despite their lack of attention, I know that there was a mess coming. I can always tell. It's not too difficult to notice when the French man's arms grow stiff and the hairs on his neck can be seen standing up from the kitchen upstairs.

"1789. Vintage," Sherlock says after a brief moment of silence, pointing at the glass of wine the man is drinking.

"The year of our glorious revolution," he answers, proudly.

I'm not sure how wine is significant to our case, but then I remember the conversation we had back at the gypsies camp and the letters that Simza showed us. This must be Ravache, the man they were speaking of who apparently knows both Simza and Rene.

It is finally my turn to see the French man's face. He turns in his seat to get a better look at me and I him. His beard and hair are almost white. His eyes are tired and his cheeks are unshaven. He looks like a tired father who just wants to go home and see his family after a long and dramatic day at work. Surprisingly, the man forms a smile.

"This is not what I came here for," Simza's voice is as sharp and cold as ice. "I want to know, and you will answer me. Is my brother here?"

"I haven't seen him for a long time," he casually answers and her eyes narrow like slits. She has the look of the raven about her and her talons seem ready for clawing and her beak ready to bite. "You're lying."

The man was silent for a moment. His head finally nodded towards the chair opposite him. "Sit. Please." Simza and Sherlock follow his wish, but John speaks up before the Frenchman has a chance to.

"A letter was received from Rene, using this same paper."

"Of course," Sherlock said casually. "He took it with him wherever he went." His head snapped towards Simza. "He's telling the truth. Rene isn't here." She looked surprised, as if he had no possible way of knowing such a thing. And yet, it was Sherlock Holmes.

The French man speaks between mouthfuls of food. "He was given another assignment"

"By an anonymous benefactor." Sherlock finishes.

The man nodded slowly. He grabs a clean napkin and soils it with the food around his mouth. "Another Englishman with money. Power. Who supported our cause. And now… he dictates our every move." A huge gulp of wine is still unable to make the man happy. Bitterness lingers on every one of his features. "I made a deal with the devil. But after tonight, it will be over."

The man's eyes are shut as he speaks, and when a man has to shut his eyes when he says such powerful words, he does it to hide his emotions so he won't appear weak in front of his enemies. I know that look all too well, I've seen it in so many people, including myself and I inhale sharply. I know what he is planning to do. He is going to kill himself.

No matter what a man says, death is the most frightening point of one's life. Or rather, not knowing what comes after it.

"Demanding I take responsibility for his acts of terror. I made a deal with the devil but after tonight it will be over. My job is almost done," he continues, and beads of sweat come dripping down his forehead despite the chill. He's anxious and is trying to hide it.

Sherlock's fingers were crossed over his lips, his eyes unblinking. For a moment, I keep my gaze on him, thinking that he may have picked up on the man's cues, concerns. Had he noticed what I had? Or was there something I had not seen?

"He's had you plant another bomb. Hasn't he?" Watson asks and I close my eyes, sighing internally; Lives lost, buildings burnt, the people's hopes crushed, there's only one person I can think of on the top of my head who can be so cruel and monstrous as Moriarty, he is a sick man.

"Claude, please. These men can help you."

Claude almost looks as if he might laugh, but again, I can see him struggling to gain control; he straightens himself out a bit and takes on a more serious expression. "I wish they could." A long pause lingers in the air. "You see, he has my wife and children."

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling another lump rise in my throat, one that's impossible to swallow; of course it is common for criminals to use a victim's family as leverage to make them do their dirty work, this man is in as much danger as Rene and we are, perhaps more so. I don't want to imagine his wife and probably very young children probably being held somewhere and scared to death, huddled together and praying for their papa to come and rescue them.

_Focus, Irene! Weeping won't help keep them safe, or avenge them if they aren't already dead, which is sadly a possibility._

Sherlock's head falls to the side in disappointment. "If you tell us where the bomb is… I'll find a way to help your family." He tries to say this as calmly and reassuringly as possible, but to me, voice doesn't sound entirely sure in that remark. Sherlock Holmes is good at many things, but a man cannot always keep his promises. No matter how hard he tries.

"It's already taken care of," Claude says with lowered eyes, taking a sip of wine. "We have a deal. He and I. No loose ends. There's only one thing I can do to keep my family safe."

My eyes are fixated on him, most specifically, his hands that grasp the gun tightly, and I want to step in, be the hero, but if I do something hasty, it might end up badly. Moriarty will kill his family - though he might do it anyways - if he is not found dead and we might not be able to stop him. All I could do is stand by and do nothing. My knees grow weak and my chest tightens; my whole body wanted to reach out and stop the man with the wine, but it is frozen.

_Does no one else know what's going to happen? Does no one else see?_

Claude's eyes do not meet anyone's after that. He is entirely to himself. His thoughts are his own, though he gives us one last warning, one last noble act. "You have less than ten minutes."

"Don't!"

Sherlock's words are not enough. The gun is fired. Powder fills the air. Commotion is appearing upstairs and we have ten minutes until the bombs go off. Not to mention we have to get out of there without anyone catching us. His eyes met mine desperately. There is a dead man lying right beside him, but we don't have time to mourn. Simza is beside herself in shock and yet we can do nothing to calm her or ourselves.

Merely patting Claude's shoulder, he gets down to business. "Watson, he has no further need of that pistol. Why don't you take it and guard the stairs?" His partner is swift to oblige.

I was quick to follow orders. Simza was weak when I helped her stand. She was no longer the strong-minded woman I once feared. "Are you alright?" She had no time to answer, before Watson shot off two warning bullets up the staircase. Her whole body jumped in response. "It's alright," I reassured. "We're going to get out of here and find your brother."

"There's only one way out of this place!" John shouts from the staircase.

Sherlock stares at a wall, and I come and stand beside him, then lean over so only he can hear me. "There's more than one way out, isn't there?"

"Right you are!" Sherlock steps up to one of the coat hooks on the wall and pulls it down towards the floor. A large clicking noise forces us to look in his direction, where the wall is suddenly opening up before our eyes. "Ah!" His arms spread apart amusedly. "Ingenious. That's the one." He turns to look at me and Simza, our eyes wide with amazement.

I begin to speak. "How did you…?"

"Perhaps another time would do for an explanation. Quickly as we can!" While Watson shoots off one last warning, Simza and I rushed towards the open passageway. "You know what to do with that sandbag, Watson." The four of us walked in; John pulls his secret sword out of his cane and, once all of us are inside, he cuts the rope that has a tied up sandbag, causing the door to close behind us. "Doctor, could you secure that lever?" He orders as he picked up an unlit torch and lit it on a nearby fire pit.

Simza is still struggling to find the truth in her dark reality. "He could have told me. Ravache was strong. He lived for liberty! He would never take his own life!" Her voice begins to shake the further she got into her speech. My hand gently finds hers in case she might want support and I am shocked when her fingers grip mine near to breaking.

John's head snaps toward her warningly.

"Calm yourself," he says harshly, but not unkindly, a bomb is going off in about eight minutes and we just saw a man shoot himself right in front of us, I think we're all a little on edge. He takes a breath and tries again. "Sim. I need you to take a deep breath, and follow us."

I nodded in agreement. "I know this is all overwhelming, but life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it. You don't know that he is dead yet, so don't assume it to be true." Her fingers relaxed a bit more in my own, but her face was moist with uneasy sweat. "Right now, we have to stop this bomb."

"Irene." Sherlock's anxious tone tugs me away from her and towards a large table set up in the secret compartment. There are bits and pieces of woodwork, and paper lying about, "Do you recognize that?" His finger pointed swiftly towards a plank in the center of the table. "I don't want my memory to fail me, but I believe it's…"

"From _Don Giovanni_." I recognize the 'Imperator' sign like my own rugged boots. "I would remember that any day. It's during the Commendatore scene. Who could forget?"

Sherlock doesn't waste a second. "To the opera!" He shouts. I don't have time to think; his hand slips in mind and he leads me and the others through a corridor and up the stairs and the four of us run across the busy streets and make our way to the opera house.

Nothing makes sense when an explosion is about to come. And in an opera house! This is undoubtedly Moriarty's biggest bombing yet and total number of casualties will by sky high if we don't get there in time. We know where the bomb would be is, and there are seven minutes left and if we fail, regret will haunt us and the worst part is, I know that Sherlock will never be able to forgive himself for this and neither will I.

Surely enough, the opera house square is packed; our feet carry us through the open space with our gypsy costumes flying behind us, but no one seems to notice. I wish they would.

Up ahead, the theater looms over us like a black cloud. Candles flicker from a few of the windows and though the street is busy with chatter, the theater is filled with music and it reverberates through my skull. Despite the dreadfulness of the situation, the Commendatore scene of Don Giovanni is no doubt the perfect time for a detonation. Everyone grows scared at the sight of the fatherly statue singing threateningly, and what is more important, it has everyone glued to their seats.

Exactly the right position.

Check and mate.

Five minutes left.

We walk through the back entrance, just as we did back at the restaurant, without any troubles. The cast and crew are too busy working on costumes, broken props and hair touch-ups to take notice of four rabble-rousers dressed in gypsy attire who happened to stumble inside. Sherlock leads us down into the cold costume chambers where dresses and suits of many colors greet us with limp waves.

People try to stop us, but Sherlock is a man on a mission as he shoves people out of his way and walks up to the stairs, pushes another worker out of his way and walks up to a lift that is risen up, revealing a statue, or what looks like a statue but is a man dressed up like a statue, to the audience watching the opera. I wish for one second that I could be among them, watching the performance.

As we turn a corner and trail further into the costume room, I get the feeling that I'm being watched or followed; I try to ignore it, but the feeling is eating away at me; When I turn around, it is a tall, young man with a thick beard, staring at me like I am some sort of food he could pack up and take home. Something about his gaze looks familiar, but there is nothing about him that I can easily recognize in the dark. Our eyes fixate only on one another, bird and prey. His head slowly falls to the side.

"Such a pretty young thing, but with the memory of a fish." His voice sounds familiar and it doesn't take me long to recall where I've heard it. He is the man who showed up at Mary and John's wedding; he blows out a large cloud of smoke in my direction and I desperately swat it away, but by the time I had open my eyes, the man is out of sight, vanished as if into thin air.

Puzzled, I stare at the empty space for several seconds until the music quietens long enough for me to hear footsteps and I turn around to see Sherlock, John and Simza all running towards me with flushed faces and disappointed eyes. They aren't stopping and in an instant, we are back outside in the ever growing darkness.

"What's wrong?" What happened?"

"I've made a mistake!"

My head snaps to John. "Where is it?"

"The Hotel du Triomphe!"

"It shouldn't take long, but we have to hurry."

One minute left.

Though the Hotel du Triomphe is looking us right in the face, but I know deep down that it's too late, and just before we hear it; the sound of that horrible burst, I cannot not help but hear the warning voice of Don Pedro, the Commendatore, singing in my head. I watch as Sherlock runs towards the entrance, his arm holding me back as the heat of a momentary fire warms my face and then disappears into the night as if it had never happened. Ashes are blowing out of the window and the sounds of a thousand voices crying out in fright and agony fill the air.

We all rush inside of the grand hotel, our faces dirty from the smog of the bomb. Though everyone is running away, we were running into abyss and people give us odd looks, but neither of us pay any attention.

When we finally reach the gold-trimmed door, my head begins to pound; the sight is enough to make all of my sense fail and all of the noise that once surrounds me is a single hum. The bodies are spread across the room like a tossed game of chess; it's noblemen broken, shattered and unmoving. The floor is checkered black and white just like a chessboard. However, the Queen is not there. The winning rival was still waiting. Waiting for his Queen.

Sherlock Holmes.

When I turn to face the scene again with my stomach all in knots, Sherlock's crouched body is on the ground with a telescope, viewing a broken window.

"What is he doing?" Simza whispers in my ear and I jump slightly since I didn't know that she was even there until she spoke. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I assure her, though I can't say I'm being completely honest. "You?"

"I'll be alright once we get out of here. No matter how well you prepare yourself for these things, it still catches you off guard."

"That I can agree with." At least I know that she's not judging me for being nervous and afraid, because she feels the same way.

Recovering from my brief moment of shock, I try to make sense of it. When I squint my eyes enough, I can see that there is a bullet-sized hole in the glass, certainly man-made and clearly not caused by the accident. Sherlock has every reason to be curious about it. "There is a bullet mark," I say quietly. "It looks like this was a set up."

"You're absolutely right, Miss Adler," Sherlock's voice is serious as he regains his ground. His telescope clasps inside itself with frustration shown in the force of the action. "We should go and inspect where he was standing." He mechanically brushes past me and my eyes flicker towards John and Simza; who both respond with equal concern for our friend.

"He took the shot from here…" John explains. We are all standing atop the roof of a nearby building where the shooter must have been. The more the gentlemen inspect the area, the more realistic the idea seems. "… using a tripod and a shooting stick."

There are three small scuffmarks on the stone rooftop. How John noticed them in the darkest part of the night, without even bending down to look at them, it must all be thanks to his war days.

"And he realized…" Sherlock crouches down on his knees with his eyes fixated on the floor. "… there was a better position." He moves a bit to the right and takes his ground more firmly and taps a spot with his foot. "It's scraped where he dragged his tripod and set it up here." We all look out into the distance where he's standing and sure enough, right across the square is the shattered window. "Six-hundred yards."

"Six-hundred and fifty," John interjects and looks up at the sky. "Not to mention the seven or eight mile-an-hour wind. He would have needed a wind gage." John's finger points to a section of the balcony railing. "In which he placed here."

"… And put a cigarette down there." Sherlock's spectacles move towards a small opening in the artistry of the balcony. In between a flower's leaf and the railing, is a visible burn mark.

"That's incredible," Sim whispers, shocked and impressed despite herself.

My brows rise instinctively. "They're just warming up."

"Can anyone shoot that far?" She asks quizzically.

John appears frustrated as he gives us his answer. "Only half a dozen men in all of Europe."

"And how many of those men served in Afghanistan?" Sherlock scoops something up from the ground, holding it between his fingers before moving it under John's nose. "Must have fallen out when he was rolling up. Wasn't that the brand you all smoked? Didn't I read something about a Colonel?"

"Sebastian Moran. Best marksman in the British Army." John raises his brows with amusement. "Dishonorable discharge."

Sherlock sighs. "He's likely now a gun for hire."

"It's him. Sebastian Moran." The words slip and I can feel myself growing pale.

"What do you mean you met him?! When was this?" John exclaims and he sounds angry.

"First it was at your wedding. The next time was today."

"Today?"

"At the Opera House. I didn't recognize him at first; I'm sorry, I should have said something, but I was frightened! All I know was that he seemed to be interested in me, and now I know why, he works for _him_."

"At any rate…" Sherlock mutters, keeping his eyes soft. "This is the second victim of his that I have encountered."

"What better way to conceal a killing?" John scoffs. "No one looks for a bullet hole in a bomb blast."

I cannot not help but chuckle darkly. "No one except Sherlock Holmes."

"Right again, Irene." He says with a smile and I feel myself relaxing only a little.

"Why do you think he did it?" Simza whispers as the boys talk over us. "What could that man have been doing that made someone want to kill him?"

"Because he did the one thing that any villain, especially Moriarty cannot stand, he was asking questions."


	12. Chapter 12

Exhausted and drained of all energy, we search the neighborhood to find an inn where we can stay for the night; it doesn't even have to be fancy, as long as it has a bed, I will take absolutely anything at this point. I feel as if my feet will collapse beneath me and I will end up on the floor, just like I did on that fateful day when our paths intertwined once again. A few more steps and we will be at the end of the street, my chest aches and my head pounds. Without sleep, we'll all be lost physically and mentally. Lucky for us, there's one close by that's both comfortable yet affordable.

When we actually make it inside the building, our feet are as heavy as our backs, and our backs are as heavy as our eyelids. I just have to stay standing up until John books our rooms for us, which shouldn't take that long since we appear to be the only two people down here. What if there aren't any rooms left? What if we have to sleep down here, or worse, what if we end up having to sleep in the street or in the alley?

Sherlock stands off to the side and looks out the window wistfully; ever since the whole incident back at the theatre, he's been ill at ease. His lip curls with the darting of his eyes; a sure sign that he is bothered. The thoughts consumed in his head are written on every fleck of brown in his eyes. He thinks, "I have messed up. All of those people are dead and I could have stopped it. He is winning."

And yet, Sherlock Holmes is not often a man who regrets much. He is able to realize his mistakes and accept them; not many know him to show humility, but it is a trait that I had admired from the start, along with many other aspects that are dear to me.

I am about to go over to him and provide comfort when two things occur; one is a sudden thought that sneaks its way up, I have learned that for some people, the best form of comfort is time to oneself, his solitude and deduction are normally all he needs to put things back on track. He does not need me as much as I think he does, though I have repeatedly reminded that my heart is weak and cannot beat as strongly without him. I never liked the idea of being a dependent woman, I have always been able to look after myself and do whatever it takes to survive, but I also meant what I said earlier, that I'm tired of running, and all I want is to live my remaining years, how ever long that may be, in peace.

The second thing to occur is that Simza alerts us that there are two rooms left, and I am relieved that we don't have to find somewhere else to stay since I doubt that any other hotels will be open at this late hour; I suggest that John and Sherlock should have a room, mostly because it would appear suspicious if someone who knows us happens to run into us and then gossips about the situation, which could reach the ears of a certain Mary Watson; and also, they will have time to catch up and plan our next move, and this also works in my favour because Simza and I will finally have a chance to meet one another properly.

The four of us manage to slug our way up a narrow staircase, and outside of the two rooms luring us in for sleep. Words continue to stay silent as drowsiness slipped into our veins. We unlock the door with a fumble, each of us ready for our pillows to meet our heads. But, before Sherlock manages to slink into his room, I snatch his sleeve before he has the chance.

My fingers continue to clutch his arm. His eyes watch my hand, until it finally uncurls with hesitation. "Are you alright?" My voice is soft in the empty, unlit corridor. and his forehead grows crinkled with thought. Perhaps he is going to empty his heart out, and confess that he is not alright, but instead he says very little. "If I am not, I shall find a way to be."

I shake my head microscopically, "That is not a proper answer. I cannot deem it acceptable. You have not been happy for some time. Your feelings aren't as easily hidden anymore, at least not to me. I can see right through you; you're not the only smart one around here." Noting that the tone and volume of my voice has escalated slightly, I close my eyes briefly and sigh. "I'm not going to force you to tell me what's wrong, but I'll literally be right next door if you need me."

With a slow kiss on the cheek, and a gentle touch of his hair, I bid him goodnight with a mere glance. From the corner of my eye, I can see that he is unmoving. His feet are frozen like the frosty air outside, glued forever to the faded carpet.

There isn't much time to dwell on our conversation. Simza is patiently waiting for me as I enter the room. Her eyes are as sharp as the knives that she always carries beneath her skirt, but something about her face is not threatening. Her hand gestured widely towards the bed, ordering me in silence to sit. Without a second thought, I follow the trail leading to the blue sheets.

Simza faces me, her knowing smirk creeping from beneath her raven-like curls and I tilt my head to the side; some part of me has always found her impossibly alluring. In the candlelight, her eyes sparkle like a fox and I wonder what's going on. "How long has it been? How long have you been in love with him?"

My eyes nearly dart out from my skull. I was certain that my affections for Mister Holmes were hidden from most people, no matter how but I haven't expected Simza to confront me in such a profound way.

"I'm not in love with him…" My response almost sounds like a question.

"Sure, and I'm Queen of England. You are as bad at hiding as the murderer who was in my fortune-telling room."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" I crack a smile at my expense.

"I'm just a curious woman," she shrugs, "and when something is on my mind, an answer must be placed with it."

My shoulders rise with instinct. I can barely bring my eyes to her face, instead planting them on the dusty window. "We're merely friends." A bitter chuckle is all the answer I receive. If there is no confession from me, there would be no sleep for either of us. "I've held affection for him as long as I can remember. There was a time when I thought it impossible, but somehow that all changed. Now I know there is no one else for me in this world." My confession shocks even myself.

"When did you meet?"

"Nearly four years ago to the day a year ago, perhaps? I had only just turned twenty-two. Such a perfect age for naïvety. So innocent and so foolish. Unfortunately, I haven't changed much."

Simza lets out a hearty laugh and takes a seat beside me, and something in my heart sways. This woman is not anyone to be fearful of. All she wants is her brother; the only living family she has left. Perhaps we are not as different as I had thought.

"I've never been in love. And honestly, I never cared too much about it, then again, I was as much a boy as my brother and the majority of the children in the camp. I played in the mud, learned to fight and refused to wear dresses."

"Where did you learn to fight? I've wondered since the day of the stag party. Watching you was truly incredible."

She smiles modestly, obviously not used to such compliments. "Some of the boys in camp were kind enough to teach me. Once I started beating them all, I began making up my own tricks." She gives me a wink. "I've heard that even you know some moves."

"Well, no one taught me, I had to learn to fight for myself, though I only use it when I have to. I suppose I'm more of a peaceful woman."

"Ironic," Simza says quietly. "You're fighting for peace, are you not?" Her head turns to the side and she rests it upon her knees, eyeing the window thoughtfully. "This Professor is threatening to bring war, not just upon the Continent, but the entire world. You're fighting to stop him. You're fighting for peace. That is called irony, if I remember my English correctly."

"I think the fact that I'm the one fighting is… Well, that's just called stupidity."

She cannot seem to wipe the smile off her face. In the dark, things are much different than they appear in the light and to me, she is more mysterious. "I think the time is right. Here and now. Time for me to read your cards." She pulls a deck from her pocket. The bent and torn sheets of parchment are tied together with a long, lace ribbon. Simza's fingers untie the pack breezily, as she had so many times before.

"I want you to take out three cards." I watch as her bare hands spread the deck across the bed sheets. "Feel it. Don't think."

Doing as I am asked, though undoubtedly thinking somewhat about my choices, I slide three cards from their spots. They look up at me with detailed, regency designs, the tales underneath waiting to be told. "Do I turn them over?"

"Let me," Simza says gently. The first card turns over slowly. An eternity might have passed, but I am captivated by the face that greets me. An old man with withered hands turned his back towards us atop a mountain. He holds a single lantern, facing it out towards the empty valley beneath him. He is not completely alone, but his only companion is a mangy wolf with unforgiving eyes. "The hermit," Simza whispers. "This card represents your past. You lived a life of solitude, silence and loneliness." My heart twists at the depressing sketch. It twists, because she is right. "These are not bad traits. It means that you have learned to follow your own counsel, and that you have the strength to go through life alone, if you ever have to."

Simza's hands flick over the next card. A large wheel faced us. It is golden like the morning sun, but with black symbols etched around its curves. I cannot understand the meaning, but along with the wheel, a Sphinx grins back at me. "The wheel of fortune," Simza's face is smiling now. "This is a good card for your present. It represents the changes that your life is going through. These could be positive or negative changes, but as we have learned, you have the strength to follow your own path, no matter what these alterations bring."

And finally, the last one. The future. My future. What will this bring? I cross my fingers and pray for something sweet, such as the lovers or the sun. Instead, what I get is far less glorious, but far more heart-racing.

"What is that?" I whisper fearfully.

"The hanged man…" Her voice is as low as the sun beneath the horizon. We both stare into the black card, the man's eyes watching us without any affection. He does not hang from his neck. Instead, he hangs from his ankles, but somehow it is just as frightening. He looks relaxed, and yet sad, as if he has no other option in his life. "This card represents catastrophic changes yet to come."

"Catastrophic?" My repeated whisper cannot help to shake. A chill enters the room at that very moment. My whole body goes numb and as frigid as ice. "Does that mean an end to something? That something bad is going to happen?"

Simza hesitates with her answer. After a minute of struggling, she finally sweeps up the cards from their pile and tucks them back into her skirt's pockets. "But like I said, we can always change the future. I wouldn't worry too much about it." She takes one of my shaking hands in hers and looks deeply into my eyes. The image of the blonde man with his tied ankles dissolves quickly from my mind.

Her brow rises in unison with the corner of her mouth. Her eyes meet mine again and

I know that finally, we are warming up to one another. Her head falls onto the pillow and her hair tumbles across it and I laugh at the idea that soon, we'll be braiding one another's hair. I do the same so that we are facing each other.

Up until now, I have never noticed that her scent reminds me of the camp; damp wood, grass and the faint touch of smoke from the fire. It's a strange thought, but it's much more comforting than what I was thinking about moments ago. As she watches me, I watch her chest rising and falling and it also calms me down.

"You're not much of a sleeper are you?" She asks, reaching out to move some hair away from my face. "Doctor Watson told me that you have insomnia. It must be hard for you." Her voice is steady and quiet, almost a whisper and nodding, I give a little shrug of my shoulders. "There is a song my mother used to sing to René and I when we had trouble falling asleep." She pauses for a second and soon, she begins to hum softly, a song that I've never heard before. I can't define the meaning of the words, but the melody brings me into a state of tranquility and I close my eyes. I might not be able to go to sleep, but my thoughts quiet themselves just long enough for me to rest peacefully.

The next morning, the sun can be seen trying to escape through a thin blanket of clouds and it looks like it's just about to break through. I sit up and blink several times so that my eyes can adjust to the light, then turn to my right, seeing that the side of the bed that was previously occupied is now empty. Simza stands at the end of the bed, buttoning up her jacket and once she sees me, she smiles.

"I know you could probably sleep there all day if I let you, but it's almost the afternoon and we should get moving," she says and I stand up, throwing on my jacket, too. We had to sleep in our clothes since we didn't have any nightgowns and such on hand. But that was the good thing about this attire, you can walk in it, sleep in it, and they're comfortable for all occasions.

As soon as we're ready, we go out the door and meet John and Sherlock in the hallway. The latter is wearing a smile so wide that John is having trouble keeping a straight face and Simza looks worried. I am not sure what to think of it.

"This way," he instructs, still wearing the same smile.

"Holmes, are you sure there's nothing the matter? Why aren't you going with us for tea and biscuits?"

"Please Watson, I've given you directions to the café and once I've concluded my business, I will meet you there."

"What business?" I ask.

"Very important," he replies, brushing his lips on my cheek only for a second, before gently shoving me away, "Run along, off you go."

"He's getting rid of the stress from yesterday," Simza mutters to me when I catch up to her and we make our way out of the inn. "All of that emotion building up inside of him… It's not good for his soul."

"All of that emotion?" I repeat, almost with a laugh. "I never thought Sherlock would be equipped with such a phrase."

"Well, here we are, your beloved is a deflating balloon and once all the air is drained out of him, there won't be anything left."

"That's a strange analogy," I remark, blinking as we step outside; my stomach won't stop begging for food, and like every craving, I must satisfy my need for it. Remembering something, I reach into my pocket and find the dinner roll that I took from the restaurant yesterday. Simza looks over at it and then stops short. A little dog sits in front of us, looking as tired and hungry as we were.

"What are you doing all the way out here all by yourself?" she asks, then says something in Romani that I can only interpret as a phrase of comfort, reaching out to gently pet the little creature who leans its head against her hand with a whimper. "Have you lost your family, too?" She opens and closes her hand, gesturing to the roll in my hand and I quickly hand it over to her and the dog takes hungry bites of it. "There you are, you must be so hungry."

"What are we going to do?" I ask her and she picks the dog up into her arms. "We can't take her with us, something might happen to her."

"No, but she can stay here for now until we can find someone to look after her." Just then, a little girl runs over to us and exclaims happily in French, asking us for the dog.

"I think the dog belongs to her," I tell her in English and Simza smiles sadly, giving the dog back to the girl, who thanks us quickly then runs to a woman, her mother most likely, and they both leave.

"What was that about?" John asks and we briefly explain the situation before going to find a place to sit.

People here don't acknowledge us or our shabby appearance, they are the sort to mind their own business, which I actually appreciate.

Simza and John keep looking over their shoulders now and then, but there is still no sign of Sherlock anywhere.

"He's twenty minutes late," John observes after checking his pocket watch.

"He must come soon," Simza replies, just as concerned, "I don't have any papers."

"And we are foreigners, this climate is exactly what Moriarty wants."

"Well, let's hope that this 'business' he's speaking of is important."

"I am going to look for him," I say and then rise without waiting for anyone to stop me or make me change my mind. If my friend is in danger, then I am going to help him.

My questions and anxieties exit my brain with the sudden arrival of Sherlock Holmes. Without a word to the others, or myself, Sherlock grabs my hand and drags me up to order with him: a perfect opportunity for me to solve this happy-Sherlock riddle. "The finest tea in France belongs to this café," he says. "It shall be all ours, as a treat for our long and weary travels." His hands clasp together greedily. "I've had a breakthrough."

"I had thought so. Nothing else makes you light up so much. What is making you like this? You snuck off this morning to attend to business, and now you can't wipe a smile from your face."

"You shall find out when we take our seat with the others. All of the information I have gathered will have light shed upon it… Everything will be awoken."

The longer I stand there observing him, there is something dark behind that jovial façade. Dark circles around his eyes are no longer swollen, but rather embedded into his skin. His eyes flicker every time a bit of sunlight comes our way, and only then did I pick up on his 'business'.

"You didn't sleep at all, did you? After I left you outside of the room, you never even went in. You went rambling around Paris at night; Your face says it all without your jaw moving an inch."

"I suppose it was more of the morning."

"Sherlock." My voice is firm. "You need to rest. I know this is a difficult task for you, but I think it is one of the easiest tasks you shall have to face in the next few days. And I can tell that this lack of energy is taking its toll on you. Or, at least, it will."

Ignoring me, he orders five teacups, one for each of us, along with a plate of biscuits, but then his attention is grabbed by something else, or rather _something_ , an inspector, having a conversation with a group of men and women, and it's safe to presume it's not a good one. He is pulled away from his observation by a young woman behind the counter sliding a silver platter in our direction. Five cups of tea, a pot for the rest of it, and some elegant sweets laid spread out like the tarot cards.

I eye the snacks carefully, my stomach growling as my mind drifts away from my previous inquiries. "Let me taste it." My fingers greedily snatch a shortbread cake from the tray, slipping it between my teeth with a hasty desire. Sherlock watches as the biscuit disappears in seconds, to which I can only return a crumbly smile. "Just making sure it wasn't poisoned."

"Let's continue on then." An amused smile stretches across his unshaven face. "Before the tea gets cold."

I watch him leave that spot with quick steps. He shuffles into the covered table beside Simza, beginning to speak as if nothing had ever happened. My own feet will not move. Sherlock's actions are so off. One second, he is as happy as a fool. The next, he is as sorrowful as a raven.

_Make up your mind, will you?_

Sherlock is finishing a sentence as I make my way over. "… or consider what we know?" He continues and I quickly make myself known to my companions, scooting in beside John and taking another biscuit so no one will notice the sudden shift in my demeanor. "Last night's bombing was clearly meant to look like Germany's retaliation for Strasbourg."

"That isn't the only reason," My whisper is heard across the table.

"Correct," Sherlock nods. "The bomb was also meant to conceal the murder of just one man. The man killed by the gunshot was none other than Alfred Meinhard."

Simza says nothing behind her mouthful of food, but instead we share the same exact look. Uncertainty.

"He makes guns," John clarifies, spreading his arms at the length of the table. "Big guns."

"Only days ago, a large share of his company was bought by an unknown investor." Sherlock brings his cup to his lips with a raise of his brow.

John scoffs. "Moriarty."

"It makes sense he would go to him," Simza says with a disgusted look on her face. He's taking ownership of all of these dead men's business. He's making money off of them, and just waiting for the bodies to stack up as the bills stack up with them."

"The clues point in one direction, but to avoid repeating last night's debacle… I was obliged to collect more sufficient data, hence my tardiness." Sherlock keeps his voice low as the groups of people around us begin to grow.

A smile creeps onto his face, but he swiftly hides it behind the rim of his cup. I look him square in the eye. "What disguise did you use this time?"

Sherlock sighs. None of us are supporting his escapades, making him feel all the more foolish. Regardless, our curiosity is still there and that was enough to satisfy the detective. "Old librarian. Long white bread, long white hair, small spectacles and eyebrows more bushy than a cat's tail." He continues, "He has a habit of feeding that urban species, the feral pigeon."

"What does that have to do with anything?" I ask, trying hard not to laugh at the picture now formed in my mind.

"I'm getting to that part, if you could just be patient. So. There are seven mainline railway stations in Paris. But, taking ten minutes to get to the Jardin des Tuileries… where the largest concentration of the winged vermin may be found…reduces there to one, the Gare du Nord. Where he will be just in time to catch the 11:04 train to Berlin."

My eyes narrow. "Did they say all of this and you listened in, or do you just somehow know these things?"

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. Without moving his lips, his eyes speak to me. Irene, my sweet thing, you really needn't ask such a question. "It makes several stops along the way. One of which is-"

"Heilbronn," John says with a satisfied smile. He sets his cup down with amusement, almost as if this game were too easy for the likes of him.

"Exactly where we must go," Sherlock agrees with a distant stare. Something wasn't right about the German city's name trickling into his ears. It sends him a dissatisfied shiver down his spine, the idea of the place possibly frightening.

We were onto him, the cat was chasing the mouse and it nearly had its paw on the tail. I just hope he will always be the cat.

"What is in Heilbronn?" I ask quizzically. "Is it something we should be wary of?"

"Meinhard's factory is in Heilbronn," John clarifies. "With the large guns and every other weapon you could probably imagine. If they spot us breaking in, we'll be done for." My face twists slowly towards my friend. His blue eyes met mine with worry, but they too whispered reassurance to me.

Sherlock Holmes has bested Moriarty before, and that is what we will do again. Suddenly, the cookies and tea no longer look appetizing.

"It's Moriarty's factory now," Sherlock grumbles. "Unfortunately, due to the bombing, the crossing between France and Germany is to be closed. I'm afraid our pursuit is over, unless we can happen upon a comrade who knows their way around borders…"

The air grows still as Simza stared off into the distance. Six pairs of eyes are glued upon hers, but she does not meet a single pair. After a moment or two, we watch her rise from her place. Fire is flickering in her eyes and it appears as if an idea is turning around and around through her head.

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?" I ask and a determined look crosses her face.

"We are going to break the law, sneak into a country illegally, and most likely toss ourselves into a land of guns, bombs and other explosives," she says, and she can barely keep still. "So, depending on what you thought I was thinking, you were right or you were wrong. Get off of your chairs, gentlemen, and Irene, we need to move."

Simza takes us deep into the forest, and though the three of us haven't the slightest idea where we're headed, Simza knows that this is the only way we'll be able to cross over to Germany. Her and John talk idly in front of Sherlock and I, our tired feet lagging us from a swift journey.

"Simza. She read my cards." My eyes flicker away from his. "They said very little. I just couldn't sleep… that's all, my insomnia is acting up again and-" I stop short when his hand reaches out gently to touch my arm, leading me back onto the trail. "You could have come to me, since I was awake." His eyes are still glossy and smooth compared to his scratched and scarred skin. "You should know that I would like nothing better than to stay up with you."

"Thank you." I whisper back to him, just as we turn the corner to join the others. "And you know that I would do the same for you." My eyes never leave his face, and my chest begins to rise and fall as fast as the birds flying above us.

"Too English!" I hear Simza bark, snapping me from my daydreams. Her fingers swiftly swap her ragged hat with John's proper one. He seems disappointed by this, but it does make him fit in with the rest of the group.

Sherlock mocks his friend with a chuckle. "I think you make a fantastic gypsy."

"I certainly smell like a fantastic gypsy." John brushes dust from his hat, making his way over to a line of horses set up amongst the trees. "Unsanitary business, these sort of things. Riding horses, wearing dirty clothes… After all, I am a doctor. I should be taking much better care of myself."

"You're a married man," Simza says amusedly. "You won't have time for yourself anymore."

The sight of the horses takes me by surprise. All of the horses are energetic and ready to go; I've never seen them in the wild before and it's enchanting. Come to think of it, every aspect of the gypsy life actually feels more comfortable to me than the city life I've always led. They are in touch with nature, their families, and themselves. I can see that every time I look at Simza; she cares more about her brother than most people in London or America care about each other, though I wouldn't say the same for soldiers like John.

My fingers stretch out towards an unoccupied black horse's nose. "Hello, darling. Are you to be mine?" It huffs towards me, and I can feel the animal's breath against my skin. The large, black muzzle presses against my palm, enjoying my touch. It like the feel of my fingers against its skin. "You're a beautiful thing, aren't you? We're going to get along just fine." I am far too distracted by the beautiful animal to take notice of the scene playing around me. Before I know it, John's voice flickers through the trees and into my eardrums.

"It's not that he can't ride, how is it you put it, Holmes?"

"They're dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle. Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs?"

"I assume we're talking about a horse here?" Simza says cheekily and I have no doubt that the confusion is as clear on my face as that tea stain on my blouse from lunch.

"I shall require a bicycle, thank you very much!" Sherlock continues with his rant. "It's 1891! I could have chartered a balloon!" Sherlock turns his back from the scene, literally making his distance from the monstrous creatures.

"What's gotten into him today?" I whisper to John, tightening my supplies onto the saddle. "He's been acting so strange lately."

"Don't worry, you know how he is sometimes, especially during a case. Sherlock might act that way, but without us he's lost. It's just that he doesn't like horses." John laughs at the ludicrous idea. "He can ride them, but he really has little fondness for them."

"They're very intelligent," I say passionately, I have always had a soft spot for animals and horses are definitely no exception to the rule.

"Yes, and he likes being the smartest man in the room." John scrunches up his face in amusement and displeasure before addressing Simza. "How can we make this more …manageable?"

Simza stops to think it through, before a white smile cracks onto her sun kissed skin. She looks over at us both a bemused smirk, a childish side of her beginning to come out. "I know just the thing." There is a long pause as the laughter catches in her throat. "Get him a pony."


	13. Chapter 13

**I'm watching A Game of Shadows tonight! Whoop whoop! As well as the last episode of WandaVision, so I'll probably spend the next day or so recovering from the emotional turmoil. *nervous laughter***

**So I think we need a chapter told from John's perspective. Since we have not yet heard his account of the events that took place. I will try my best to translate his thoughts into words and I may or may not have based their meeting off of The Great Mouse Detective, nope, not at all. *wink***

* * *

"Keep up, old boy!" I shout to Holmes behind me as the wind sweeps through my short, bristly hair. My hat fell off ages ago, lost forever, never to be seen again, but I don't really care, it didn't suit me anyway. This sort of lifestyle in fact is not agreeing with me at all, but I suppose we all have to make sacrifices - I should know that, I was a soldier and a doctor - one of mine happened to be the blue and gray scarf that Mary had worked tirelessly over, and I trust that Tamas will take care of it as if it were some sacred treasure. I can almost feel my own scarf becoming undone and floating away to; the wind is stronger in the open valley than it had been in the woods, and a wintery chill wraps around me like a blanket, only this one does not bring the kind of comfort that most blankets tend to give, instead it makes me feel more tired than before. We have to keep going, we've been riding for nearly an hour, but the detective can never manage to keep up.

We have stopped a few times to regain our strength and warm our stomachs and hands, but Holmes has never bothered to depart his new 'friend'. You would think that after all this time, he would become frustrated and then abandon the poor little pony out in the middle of nowhere to fend for itself, but he's surprisingly stayed with it; and I can think of two reasons Either he wants to prove us wrong, or in the least likely case, he's actually grown fond of him. He might tell you otherwise, but he has a bit of a tender spot for animals, and I'm sure that if he saw the dog that Irene and Simza ran into, he would have taken it home himself.

Hmm, take that back, I don't think I would trust Holmes with a dog of his own; I've seen the terrible experiments he puts poor Gladstone through on an almost constant basis; I'm surprised the Royal Animal Welfare Society hasn't come banging on our doors yet. I am relieved that Mary and I have our own place so that there's no way he can continue to conduct these experiments.

My eyes lift from the path waiting for me, to the sky above; the sun just can't be bothered today, can he? Just then I feel a big, fat raindrop land right on the tip of my nose. I turn around to the rest of our troop as if to speak, but instead, I don't say anything. I just bite down on the corner of my lip and hope that it won't amount to anything.

I watch carefully as the others catch up with me. Riding out here is so relaxing, and for this one brief moment of peace, which I'm sure I'll never get again, I think about how fond Mary is of horses and how much she would have enjoyed this part of our adventure, even though she and Holmes would be at each other like silly schoolchildren.

It seems as though I am drawn to a specific type of person, strong-willed, stubborn, and independent who won't take no for an answer, but can also surprise me with something unexpected.

"He's probably embarrassed with the fact that he is lagging behind," Irene says to me at one point of our harrowing journey and I smile, shaking my head in response.

"Perhaps he shouldn't have been so picky about riding a horse, after all, they aren't like that blasted machine he uses to get around London, they're living, breathing beings."

"I think he looks adorable," Simza responds with a chuckle. "Try encouraging the pony, he might benefit from you talking with him."

Either he is too far away to hear her, or he just completely and deliberately ignores her. Either way, he'll soon catch up with us, we just have to be patient.

The whole time, he bobs behind on his miniature pony. Literally bouncing up and down across the hills, forests and valleys of France, Holmes has been rewarding us with an endless sixty minutes of amusement.

There is nothing as glorious as that scene replaying inside my mind when I have to face forward and encourage my horse to keep going, that we are almost there.

And Irene is getting as much amusement out of this as Sim and I, in fact, she's practically been teasing him the entire time. Turning around, I merely watch the scene of her falling off her horse and Holmes laughing at her play out and I chuckle to myself as he crouches down and leans over her.

"They have an odd relationship, don't they?" Simza muses, also watching alongside me. "One minute it's as if they practically grew up together, and the next they act as if they hardly know each other."

"It's been this way since the beginning," I tell her, "She was one of the subjects of a case Holmes and I were working on for the then Prince of Bohemia, long story short, she outsmarted him and since then he's been infatuated with her, though I am more aware of his feelings for her than he is."

Irene gets back on her horse and Holmes trots alongside her and I see that they're going to be riding together for the remainder of the trip, which is perfectly fine with me. As much as he tries to deny it, he loves this woman more than anyone in the world; when I tell you that he stayed awake with her when she was ill and clinging to life, I'm not just exaggerating. He stayed by her side, holding her hand and trying to comfort her as best she could, and when she had an anxiety attack, he was there for her then, too.

But he isn't exactly one to open up about how he's feeling, neither is she, they sort of tend to keep their most inner thoughts to himself. It does frustrate me sometimes that after knowing him for a little over ten years, he still doesn't trust me well enough to tell me what goes on in that odd head of his, but then I remember that I have my own intrusive thoughts that I would rather he not know about, lest he think less of me.

Irene wanted us to have a room together at the inn last night, and I knew why; it was so that we would have a chance to talk, mano e mano, which we did a considerable amount, but it was mostly about the case and less about other things that didn't exactly matter. He was on edge, barely slept a wink, even if I had some herbal medicine on hand for him, it probably wouldn't have done that much good.

I lose my train of thought when Tamas says something in French and then Simza responds and translates for me. "He says that we should keep moving, we're nearly there, then the horses can rest." My feet tightens a little around the horse's stomach, urgently yet gently kicking him into a full run. Holmes and Irene finally manage to catch up with us and I feel a hint of remorse for the little pony who has the privilege of being ridden by him.

There has never been a more beautiful sight in my eyes compared to the mountains and hills stretching tall above us with eyes of brown and green. At the tips, a blanket of fog protects them from the late winter's bitter winds. I can hear the sound of the air singing all around us as it drums into our eyes, and though it chills me to the bone, I feel more alive than I've felt in a very long time.

The day is ending when we finally come to the border. Lakes, streams, trees and mountains were no longer our companions as the lights of a weapons plant dawned upon us. Heilbronn is waiting to be taken by the strong wit of a dishonorable world class criminal, the hawk eyes of a detective, and the smirking of a doctor.

Holmes and I remove ourselves from our horses, gathering our most vital belongings. Irene does the same, but she turns her face away from us, as if the departure from her beloved horse nearly weakens her already fragile heart, but then she's all set. For a second, I want to tell her to stay with Simza until we return since Moriarty could literally be waiting just around the corner and she has more reason to fear this man than we do. His henchman wants her dead and tossing ourselves in his path of danger puts us and her more at risk.

But the fury and determination in her eyes tell me that even if Holmes and I did tell her to stay with Simza, she would only come in after us anyway. I give her a sad smile as she joins Holmes' side. "We'll slip in through the loading bay, find out what exactly is going on in there, and we get out. Hopefully safe and sound."

His brows rise unsteadily. "Getting out might be tricky." His eyes dart towards our gypsy friends. They had become our entire cause of hope. Without them, we would still be back in Paris.

"We will get you out," Simza replies, as if she knew exactly what we had wanted to hear. Holmes squeezes her rough hand in appreciation as she continues to sit highly upon her stallion, every inch the strong woman I've known her to be. "If my brother is in there, get him out alive."

Irene nods, and then with one last reassuring smile, we walk steadily away.

Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk.

The hoard of soldiers passes us without recognition, their tailcoats long and dark like their sleepless eyes. They are as awake as could be, despite the new day approaching. Their buttons are sewn to perfection, and their boots are as shiny as a new English rainfall. Holmes lets out a sigh of relief and his voice follows the passing storm, taking Irene and I both by surprise. "Are you happy?"

His chocolate eyes are glued upon me, and I furrow my eyebrows at the random discussion. In fact, I can't remember talking at all since we had left the gypsies back on the border, and up until now, I've been left to my own thoughts.

"What?" There is little toleration in my reply. Without even so much of a glance towards Holmes, I continue fixing and cleaning the weapons in my jacket.

"At this moment…" he continues, trying desperately to make eye contact with a non-willing participant. "Are you as happy as you would be on your honeymoon in Brighton?" His head falls to the side mockingly. I have to stop myself from scoffing in disapproval. Of course I'm not as happy. I'm covered in mud, tired, and sore. I could be by a warm fire with my new wife, but that had to be taken away from him.

My response is strict, "I'm not going to grace that question with an answer."

Holmes says nothing. Instead he turns his frown a bit more and raises his brows as if saying 'so be it' without uttering a single word. However, the detective cannot move on without an answer, and once again repeats himself. He is insufferable at times, but at least he's persistent.

"Aren't we here for another reason? I think we are." All of the patience that I hold for my friend is quickly being tested.

"Okay."

"Shall we get on-"

"Simple question." I roll my eyes; I can go from adoring this man, to wanting to wipe that triumphant smirk off his face in five seconds flat and right now, it's definitely the latter and it takes all my remaining effort and energy to keep from doing so. People might ask me, 'How have I managed it for so long?' Well, my dear friend, I find myself asking that question every day of my life.

"Are we going to do something? Or wait here for them to come back around?"

Holmes lets out a sigh of annoyance and turns his face away like a child. He can be a bit of a child sometimes, and the corner of my lip turns up a little at his pout, but it turns down again before he can take any notice of it. I'm in no mood for this sort of petulant behaviour.

"What time is it?" Holmes asks, glancing over at me and then at Irene who sits quietly, twirling a piece of her hair between her fingers. I completely forgot that she was there up until now.

"Three-fifteen…" I answer hesitantly with a flick of my pocket watch.

"Over there in the residential part of the complex should be a telegraph office." He points to a brick building up ahead. I had seen it while we were breaking through the gates. There were German signs dangling from it, and thankfully the language was far more recognizable than French. I nod, stuffing my weapon into my pocket and standing up. "Send this to Mycroft. Be back here on the hour."

I take the paper without another word. I know that Irene will be going with him and even though I am just as worried about her as I am of him, I know that they are both strong enough to handle whatever situation comes their way.

Making my way in the dark is not easy; I wish I'd brought my torch with me, but I don't think even that would help me for long. As I walk along the unfamiliar paths, making note of the ones that I've already crossed, I try to recall the basic German phrases that I learned during my years of medical school, though I hoped that I wouldn't have to use them anytime soon.

I attempt to remain as casual as possible as I pass by a group of people chatting near the entrance of a dark and dingy alleyway. Thankfully no one takes notice of me as I turn to the left and walk up the steps of the office building. I grab the knob but find it to be locked.

Of course.

I pick up my leg, kick the door open and walk in, then I walk up to another door to what looks like an office and open the door with ease, I go to the telegraph machine, then begin to send the message to Mycroft.

Sending telegrams was something that we were always taught while I was in the war, as well as Morse Code, in case we didn't want anyone who didn't understand it to interpret our messages. I am tempted to use Holmes' preferred method of communication, backward encryption.

The main rule is that any message that starts with a consonant is a mirrored message. For example, the telegram I sent to Mary to let her know that we were safe, read. "My most loathed Mary, every moment I count away from you is a blessing…" Of course, I meant the exact opposite, and I wouldn't have sent something as misleading as that had Mycroft not been with her, keeping her safe and sound.

That's the only solace I have, knowing that my dearest love is kept as far away from danger as possible; I very well know that she is capable of looking after herself, but it would be foolish to put her at risk.

Loud sounds coming from outside momentarily distract me and they bring about all sorts of concerns. But I shove them back and focus on the issue at hand. The sooner the telegram is sent out the better.

Once I'm finished with the telegraph, I hurry out of the office. I close the front door of the building and walk back out on the streets like nothing happened. Mission accomplished, now all I need to do is find Holmes and Irene and then we can all get out of here, but as soon as I make it out, a woman's scream sounds from somewhere nearby.

My heart stops, thinking it's either Simza or Irene who are in trouble, but then out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark shadow against the wall, some sixth sense awakes in me—that familiar, indefinable instinct for trouble. I move silently toward the building where I believe the scene to be taking place and in the dim moonlight, I see a woman flat against the wall, pinned there even though the man before her isn't touching her, but is an inch away from her

face, with a leer I've seen too often.

"Leave her alone," I say as I step over to them. I'm fuming, but I speak calmly, leaving no room for debate.

The man spins around to see who had just spoken to him. "But I haven't finished," he says in German, and my knowledge to speak it actually comes in handy. "I was just going to make her day." He reeks of drink and stale tobacco.

"I said leave her alone! Clear out. Now." I order, my voice sharper. Peaceful negotiation might not be an option and I am at my wit's end, certainly not one to be trifled with. I put a hand on his shoulder, with a grip so hard that the man cries out.

He is a good six inches shorter than me, but tries to take a swing at me all the same. I seize his wrist and twist it, making him cry out again and the woman gasps.

"Apologize to this young lady and you'll get back to your bunk and I won't hear of you going near her again, you understand me?"

"Yes, sir!" He turns to the woman with a flash of fright in his eyes and possibly a hint of embarrassment. "Beg your pardon, Miss. Didn't mean any harm."

Still terrified, the woman gives the slightest nod. Her chest heaves up and down with shallow, uneven breaths. Her words fail her, she opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

"Now, out!" I say, and the man, deflated by sudden sobriety, shuffles from the wall and back to his post. "You alright?" I ask the woman and a sigh of immense relief passes her as soon as the man is completely out of sight.

"I—I think so."

"Did he hurt you?"

"He didn't…"—she is saying it to herself as much as to me—"he didn't actually touch me."

I take in the woman's face—her gray eyes seem calmer now. Her dark hair is loose, in waves down to her arms, and her fists still gather her nightgown to her neck. I take off my coat, leaving just my vest on, which should be enough until we get somewhere safe.

"Thank you," she says, wrapping it around herself as a cold blast of German air sweeps past us without warning. "I don't know what I would do if you hadn't come along."

"Must have got an awful fright. Not to worry, you won't get any more trouble from him. It's up to you whether you report him, Miss. I'd say he's not the full quid now. Being over there changes a man. Right and wrong don't look so different anymore to some."

Her eyes show me a sign that she has a kind heart and will not be pressing charges on the man who did her wrong. "I understand that."

I turn to go, but offer one last piece of advice, "You've got every right to have him up on charges if you want. But I reckon he's probably got enough troubles. Like I said—up to you," and I disappear into the dark night, keeping my thoughts on where Holmes and Irene could be.

I don't believe you know the story about how Holmes and I met, do you? Or have you? Well, I'm here to tell you a different account of what happened. Picture it in your mind, if you can, a man ten years younger than he is right now, who had just arrived in London after lengthy service in Afghanistan and was anxious to find a quiet place, preferably dry where I could rest and find a bit of peace. Little did I know but my life was about to change forever.

As I wandered through an alleyway, avoiding the rain pouring down on me and sheltered by the roofs and awnings and shuddering as I passed rows of decrepit buildings that were in need of a good patching up. From further up the street, I could hear someone crying, instinct led me over to where the sound was coming from, and there on the steps was a little girl, who looked to be about six years old, crying softly.

"Are you all right, my dear?" I asked kindly, and the little girl turned to me. I removed a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. "Come now, come, come. Here, dry your eyes." I took a seat beside her, secretly welcoming the chance to rest. Of course, the most sensible thing to do would have been to hire a carriage to take me where I needed to go, but if I had, this little girl would never have been found. "Ah, yes, that's better. Now tell me, what's troubling you, my dear?"

"I'm lost," she stuttered, her voice still soft and unsure, " I-I-I'm trying to find Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street." She handed me a small newspaper clipping.

"Now, let me see here…" I squinted my eyes so that even in the dim light, I could read the headline. 'Famous detective solves baffling disappearance.' But where are your mother and father?" That was the first thing I wanted to know, why would a little girl be out wandering the streets alone at night? But I quickly realized that it was clearly a sensitive subject for the girl, as she started to get more upset.

"That's why I m-m-must find Sherlock!" She began to sob into her scarf and immediately, I tried to calm her. If only I had something I could give her that might help the process, but I had nothing with me but my good nature and my soothing voice.

"Well I don't know any Mister Holmes," I began, but gave her a warm smile. "but I do remember where Baker street is, I've passed it many times as a boy." Her face brightened a bit as I reopened my umbrella. "Now, come with me. We'll find this chap together."

It didn't take us long to arrive at the building that read 221 B Baker Street up to a blinded window. I held the child's hand as we walked up the short flight of stairs and I knocked on the door, making myself look as presentable as possible despite my weary state and a second or two later, we were greeted by a woman who I presumed to be the housekeeper.

I removed my hat, as anyone with a decent cupful of manners would do, "Good evening, Madam. Is this the residence of a Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm afraid it is," she responded with a sigh, and I wondered what she meant by such a reply. "He's not here at the moment, but you're welcome to come in and wait."

"Oh, I-I don't want to impose," I began, holding my hat in both of my hands, "It's just the girl…" I gestured towards my side, but the girl had already disappeared inside without so much as a greeting. She was seated by the fireplace examining a magnifying glass with interest and looking around the room, fascinated by all that she saw.

The housekeeper rushed to her side and began to take off the wet hat, wringing it dry and making such a fuss over the child that I believed her to be a woman of soft heart. "Oh my! You poor dear! You must be chilled to the bone, but I know just the thing. Let me fetch you a pot of tea and some of my fresh cheese crumpets."

I hung up my coat, but a voice coming from the front door distracted me and made the girl stop what she was doing.

"Ah-ha! The villain's slipped this time! I shall have him!" The door bursts open to reveal a man dressed in Chinese robes, smiling triumphantly with a gun in his hand as lightning struck, then he burst inside, rushing towards one of the many tables.

"I say, who are you?" I asked.

"What?" He paused in the middle of whatever he meant to accomplish with this charade, and turned to me. "Oh!" He reached up and pulled off what turned out to be a mask to reveal the one and only… "Sherlock Holmes, my good fellow."

The girl on the other hand, was relieved to see him and approached bravely. "Mr. Holmes! I need your help, I'm in terrible trouble and-" she began, but he was too fixated on his own little game to pay the slightest bit of attention

"Now see here!" I said, shaking a finger at Mister Holmes who once more rushed right by us. "This young lady is in need of assistance, I think you ought to-"

"Will you hold this, please, Doctor?" he said, handing me a gun, and instantly, I was baffled. "Ah, wait just a moment. How did you know I was a doctor?"

Holmes picked up a single bullet and placed it in the gun, "A surgeon, to be exact. Just returned from military duty in Afghanistan. Am I right?"

"Doctor John Hamish Watson, yes, but how could you possibly-"

"Quite simple, really." He held up my arm to reveal a stitch mark on my jacket. "You've sewn your torn cuff together with the Lembert stitch, which of course, only a surgeon uses. And the thread is a unique form of catgut distinguished by its peculiar pungency and found only in the Afghan provinces."

"Amazing!" I exclaimed, the words coming out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Simply amazing."

"Actually... it's elementary, my dear Watson." He spun the revolver and aimed it at the wall above my head, and I leapt out of the way, seizing the girl's arm and bringing her behind a chair. The gun fired and beside me, the girl jumped. The housekeeper rushed back out.

"What in heaven's name?!" She exclaimed, distraught and glared in Mister Holmes' direction. "Oh! Have you been shooting at my wall again? Mister Holmes, How many times have I told you-"

"There, there, Mrs. Hudson, it's quite alright. Now…" He got on his hands and knees and searched on the floor. "I know that bullet's here somewhere-" The girl had found it and held it up for him. He took it. "Thank you, Miss…"

"Flaversham. Olivia Flaversham," she said, watching as he put the bullet back in the revolver and then picking up a violin, he slumped in an armchair, starting to play.

Seeing this as an opportune time, I gently nudged Olivia's shoulder, hoping that this time she could get him to listen to her. "Now will you please listen to me? My daddy's gone and I'm all alone."

"Young lady, this is a most inopportune time," he said, pointing his bow close to Olivia's chest, "I simply have no time for lost fathers."

"Obviously, you're quite busy at the moment," I said sarcastically, starting to become annoyed with him, then I got an idea. "He's right, Olivia. Let's leave Mister Holmes be and we will alert the policemen at Scotland Yard." I emphasized the last part purposefully, "I am sure they will find him quick as a wink."

Even with my back turned, I could see that his eyes widened, and the playing had stopped meaning that I'd managed to grab his attention. I winked toward Olivia and she picked up on the idea.

"You really think that Inspector Lestrade can help us?" she asks hopefully, drying her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"He certainly can, all we have to do is-"

"Wait!" Mister Holmes cried and Olivia and I turned around at the same time to see that he was now standing. "Fine, I will take your case, but you do exactly as I say when I say to do it, no questions asked, understand? Young lady, you stay with Mrs. Hudson, Dawson-"

"Watson," I corrected.

"Whatever. Grab your coat." I looked toward the hook and taking it off, I frowned when I discovered that it was completely soaked, having not had the time to dry off properly. He grabbed his own coat and looked over my shoulder with a sparkle in his eyes. "The game is afoot."

And this is how it all started out, short simple cases that involved finding lost relatives or stopping a robbery, but now we have worked our way up to stopping evil mastermind from starting a world war. Do I wish that I could go back to the good old days? Perhaps, but at the same time, after all we'd been through, the good and the bad, I wouldn't change a thing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm back with another chapter! I just watched a Game of Shadows yesterday and felt the need to release this chapter for you all. Also, I may or may not have started to tear up when writing this little bit.
> 
> Trigger warning: Also, if you are sensitive to violence, or this scene in particular, please feel free to skip ahead.

Little time to lose with little time to think. That is all we have as we make our way across the road towards a cluster of apartments. A large, sharp gate blocks us from going anywhere and with hesitation I turn to him, keeping my voice as low as I can. "What are we going to do? I can't climb this."

"No," Sherlock mutters heatedly. "You can't, but I can. I will lift you and then haul myself over." I often forget of the masculinity that was always hiding under those baggy jackets and trousers. Sherlock is as strong as the next man and his fighting skills are incomparable. I've seen him at boxing matches - no, not just so I can stare at his half-dressed form - and it is as if he can calculate his opponent's moves. There is no time to waste and before I know it, my body is raised in the air, and I let out a yelp as my hands plant atop the sharp gate's spikes. "Can you climb down to the other side?" I hear him ask beneath me.

Nodding, I take hold of the fence and begin the quick descent; the sharp spikes dig into my palms, as sharp as knives and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out in pain. Landing on the other side, I dust my hands off on my trousers while at the same time wiping away the remnants of gravel. Yes, I'd gotten rid of the skirt and folded it away so it would be much easier for me to run and climb. I have no idea how Simza manages to do it.

"Does that answer your question?" I whisper, looking at Sherlock from the other side. His brows rise in amusement. His fingers lace between mine, and we make our way under the rafting of a building, all the while keeping our eyes peeled in the darkness.

"Stop." Sherlock's strict tone keeps me fimly in my place. Guards are surrounding us, though their eyes only focus on one another as their rotting teeth grin. They take no notice of the 'gypsies' invading their factory, and even if they do, I wondered if they care, they probably think we're amateurs anyway. "This way."

He pulls me off to the left and away from the guards at present. We are finally alone as we turn down a back alley, despite the shimmering moonlight guarding our way and the hundreds of bottles lined up beside us. "What are these for?" I ask, squeezing my fingers more tightly around his. His hand in mine is more of a comfort than he knows.

"Poison, bullets, anything they happen to need it for," he mutters darkly. Sherlock Holmes is a fighter, but he does it for justice. The thought of worldwide war was not something he is fond of, though I knew he is fascinated by the mind power of James Moriarty, and with the idea of his entire entity being erased from the Earth's memory. "Come quickly. It's in here."

A large, metal door stands before us with nothing but a warning sign written upon it. Poison is the only word I can recognize; a universal word for destruction.

"We're not going in there, are we?"

"What choice do we have?"

"What choice do we have?" I repeat and my hand falls away from his with a scoff. "This is going to end us, Sherlock. If they catch us, this is the end." The hanged man. His strange grin. His tied feet. They are trapping me and I cannot escape.

Sherlock's eyes meet mine with seriousness. "What does it matter if it ends us? The entire world is depending on us. You, me, Watson and Simza. That's all there is left. That is all that stands between humanity and destruction. The four of us against James Moriarty, and if we die, it might just save the rest of the world." I cannot argue with that, or deny it, whether I am fond of the idea, or not, I would rather not argue with him. Suddenly, I feel a tornado of selfishness and greed spinning around me. My skin crawls with disappointment. I want to keep breathing the air I once took for granted and to live the rest of it with the man I love, but what's the point of living if everyone else has to pay for it? My own life is nothing compared to the lives of others.

The door splinters open easily. It makes sense: no one besides us would bother breaking into a poison cellar and it locks behind us. We creep inside without a word and without notice and walk carefully and slowly in the factory. Pipes of all sorts of shapes and sizes greet us with whistles, bubbles and puffs of steam. It smells like warfare.

Sherlock unscrews the lid of a titanium bottle then pulls out the contents. A smooth, golden liquid swishes across the bottle as he turns it over in his hands. "Poison of every kind lies within these chambers. You name it and they have it here. You want it and they will supply it for you."

"You can tell what it is just by looking at it?"

"You forget who I am, Irene." He tosses a smirk over his shoulder before putting the weapon back in its safe and though the timing is far from ideal, I can't help but smile.

"I would never forget you because-". My lips open. I want to say those three words so badly. I want to tell him so many times that his ears actually grow weary from hearing it. I've wanted to scream it to him, whisper it in his ear, and slip it to him on a piece of paper at dinner parties. And yet, I cannot bring myself to utter the words; my lips close again, but my eyes do not leave after a minute, but stay planted until he understands what I am trying to pass on, yet, without any words attached.

Sherlock seems intrigued with this and closes the gap between us even more and his face twitches expectantly, his eyes shining with what looks like hope. He believes himself to be a nuisance to even his closest friend. Many people do not care to have him in their lives, nor do they thank him on a regular basis. However, I do, I would feel lost without him and I will not hesitate to show him how much I care.

"Because..." He presses, a small smile forming on his smooth, perfect lips. I swallow and I can feel the clump moving down my throat and into my chest. I open my mouth again but it snaps shut again when I make a discovery.

"There's a map on the wall. There are maps everywhere." Me pointing out the obvious is not just without reason and I walk over to it. "All leading to…"

"Here," Sherlock mutters and his fingers brush against mine. "As well as small weapon pieces fixated upon specific cities."

"Cities he's going to bomb?"

"Most likely," Sherlock sighs "There are weapon supply designs in the back left corner." I followed his eyesight. Sure enough, huge guns with many detailed parts are drawn out intricately on the parchment. Detailed guns, waiting to destroy the details of lives. "Come with me." He takes my hand in his once again and I realize this place is a tomb, but all of the coffins are empty. And we are just the right size.

The next door is small, but far less friendly with its rotten black wood. Sherlock kicks it aimlessly with his boot, but not before untucking the gun from his pocket and we sneak our way over to a small ledge. Hundreds and hundreds of bombs are lined up side by side like the soldiers that will use them.

Four clicks drag me away from the incoming attack. When my eyes finally flicker open, an unfriendly sight shines before us.

Lights?

Our entire cover is blown, and the same feeling of eyes on my back washed over me. Before I have time to utter a word, his rough hands shove me behind a nearby crate.

"That's what you get, Mister Holmes, when industry marries arms."

Sherlock ducks in case someone is watching him from the other side. However, I see the man before he does. Sebastian Moran. As ugly as a man could come on the inside, with the outside of a washed up soldier; my eyes flicker towards Sherlock's loaded gun.

"Now, put your gun down. It's a bit old fashioned," he continues. Sherlock finally meets his match. I cannot see what was happening, but the sound of a gun sliding across the concrete floor does not bode well."What you need is one of these. Go on. Pick one."

Sherlock is standing now. He is like a puppet being ordered by the puppeteer, and with terror, I watch him snatch something up from the crate behind him; something thin and black, with a sharp end like a rattlesnake's tail.

"Machine pistol," Sebastian says proudly, though this is nothing to be proud of. "Self-repeating. Takes 7.63 caliber rounds in one of these." Something is sent flying through the air and Sherlock catches it with ease, almost seeming interested in the weaponry. "A ten shot box magazine."

Each man clicks his gun together, one right after the other.

"Easy enough to load," my partner says with a fierce stare. "I'd imagine one would have to retract the bolt to engage the first round." He begins walking forward, fiddling with the gun in his hands while Sebastian's is aimed straight between his eyes.

"Easier done than said." Four more feet can be heard. I can see the men, the twins being utterly unmistakable. They are young, foreign and practically bowing at Moran's feet.

It is not until a gagging noise is let loose and I can hear Sherlock tumbling to the ground, having no choice but to make him bear the pain and misery, that I truly begin to feel my chest ache, but the last thing I should do is scream or cry out, so I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stay silent.

"Take him to the surgery. I'll find the doctor." I have no idea where the 'surgery' is located, but I have every intent to follow them there, and if I get caught, Lord above, I will try and save the man I loved. I will tell him to his face when his eyes crack open and I will never let him leave my side again.

"As for the other one… Get the girl. She's hiding behind the crate."

Rough hands pull me up from the floor, the stench of wine and gunpowder lingering in their sleeves. My brain tells my fist to go for their faces, but in the spit second I have to think, I know that they are much too fast, and if they see me fight, they will know that they can intimidate me, but unlike Sherlock, my face is not covered by a white rag, instead, they drag the both of us into a dark room with a light coming from my left.

As I am tied up by - whatever this man's name is, amidst my shaking and the nauseous feeling rising up in my stomach, I turn to Sherlock trying to see if he's alright, but the other man is standing in front of him and blocking my view. The men leave promptly and the second they're out the door, I turn to look at Sherlock, to utter his name, but nothing comes out but a tiny sound resembling the start of a scream.

A voice speaks from the hallway, but it's only an amusement lingering behind the blurred words that helps me to remember who is speaking. And my jaw tightens as the door opens and my eyes scan upwards, the devilish grin of James Moriarty now being aimed unerringly in my direction. I stare right back, not to be intimidated. He is worth nothing more than the mud splattered across his shoes, or the crumbled ash stuck in the crevices of his pipe. He and Moran are the most disgraceful human beings I will ever lay my eyes on.

"This is schnapps," one of the twins says holding a drink in front of Sherlock's nose and he rouses, making me heave an internal sigh of relief.

"A telegram was sent from here-"

"This isn't schnapps, Aqua vida, distilled from potato mash. A common misconception, Thank you by the way."

This is not the time to be smart!

"Who was it sent to?" He asks, sitting at his desk and doodling on a sheet of paper with a black pen.

"My horror at your crimes is only matched by my admiration at the skill it took to achieve them.

"Who was it sent to?" The professor repeats through his gapped teeth.

"You used the anarchists and their bombs to create a crisis in Europe. Nation against nation. Under various pseudo names you bought, schemed, or murdered your way into numerous industries, assuring none of it could be traced to you. Cotton, opium, steel, now arms, chemical weaponry, all to be shipped across Europe in less than a week. Everything from bullets to bandages," he pauses for breath, "And now that you own the supply, you intend to create the demand. A World War."

Moriarty's patience has worn thin. He taps the opposite end of the pen repeatedly on the desk before setting it down and then stands up, circling and parading around the room like he owns the place; he stops and looks out the window. "You are familiar with Schubert's work? The Trout is perhaps my favorite. A fisherman grows weary of trying to catch an elusive fish, so he muddies the water, confuses the fish."

If I had the strength, there is no doubt that I would run to him with my tied hands, slung them over his neck and choke him with the very chains he had ordered upon me. The irony of it all seems so sweet inside my head. However, that kind of energy does not exist within me. I have no strength at all, and Moriarty can see that; he smiles down at me. "It doesn't realize until too late that it has swum into a trap."

The noise of a butcher cutting into a fresh slab of meat hits my ears quickly. The sharp sound of metal digging into muscle only lasts for a moment, but this time it was not where it was meant to be. The knife was now a hook. I watch as one of the twins makes his way behind Sherlock with the gruesome weapon, digging it into his right shoulder with a controlling desire.

While the other comes up behind me and ties a rag to muffle the scream that escapes my throat as Sherlock is lifted through the air without a choice. The rest of his body pulls the weight down from his shoulder, his skin all but tearing in half. I can feel myself sobbing, the tears pouring from my face and down my neck, but there is nothing I could do about it. That is the worst part. His screams filling my ears and head.

Let him go! Take me instead, I'll do anything!

This is what he wants, to see you watching him suffer.

Things grow very quiet for a moment, besides the grunts of pain, his hands reach for the hook in order to lessen the weight that drags him down. The blood is rushing out of him beneath his clothes. As his struggling body hangs limply in the air, like the fish Moriarty had so beautifully put into a metaphor, the sound of electricity comes whirring into the room.

Music!

I want to strangle the man in front of everyone. I want to toss him off of the bridge and into the river Thames. I can feel the tears drying and turning into glimmers of hate. My shaky legs robotically lift themselves off the ground, despite the weakness that ransacks my body.

Schubert's Die Forelle begins to play, and Moriarty begins to sing into his much beloved mirror, his voice highly unimpressive for a man who has been to so many operas. I wince back in disgust, not just from the cracking of his voice, but also from the insanity that is radiating off of him. With a greedy smile, he spins around towards Sherlock, his hands pushing him firmly across the room like a swing, but he does not scream. Moriarty grows highly unsatisfied and spins him around, the hook twisting deeper and deeper into his skin, therefore bringing forth another endless train of screams from his target.

The Fisherman and the Trout.

The song has finished. The rope tumbles to the ground in a hoop, like hair being cut. Sherlock's weak body plummets to the floor along with it, all of the screams ceaselessly knocked out of him.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" Moriarty repeats the question without any lightness in his heart. "To whom did you send the telegram?"

"To my…" Sherlock tries to get the words from his lips, but cannot manage the next word and Moriarty, displeased with not receiving a better answer, leans down to his level. One hand shoves the hook deeper into his shoulder. Sore from screaming, his throat only manages to let loose a faded groan. The other hand pins down his wrist, making sure that he cannot manage to run away. "To my brother… Mycroft," he manages, a gasping whisper.

"I've just got one more question for you. Which one of us is the fisherman, and which the trout?"

Taking the opportunity of the villain's unfixed eyes, strength flies to my bones and lifts my body up from the floor. I rid myself of the ropes tying my hands together and rush towards him in a flurry, the other men in the room curious as to what my next move might be and my fist meets with his face, again and again and again, but I keep my mouth muffled if only to keep from uttering the string of curses that enter my mind with each punch I deliver and he does not bother to stop my movements, which only surprises me even more.

A rumbling sound makes all of us stop what we're doing. All of our heads look up towards the skylight, the unmistakable sound of something falling creaking into our ears. I can see the tower coming down on us like rainfall, and fear splinters Moriarty's bones as he stands utterly still and adrenaline crashes into me, I use a rough hand to pull Sherlock into my chest and roll us both away from the main impact of the crash.

Glass, tiles, bricks, and other pieces of material shatter down upon us; I turn us so that my body is covering him and keep him as close to me as I can, sheltering him from any more harm that might reach him.

"Irene," a quiet voice whispers and I slowly rise from my position, feeling bits of glass in my back and arm but they aren't too deep because when I sit up, the pieces tumble to the ground. My own pain doesn't matter right now.

"Shh, I'm right here, it's alright," I carefully lift him so that his head is resting on my lap. He grunts a little and I softly apologize, trying to keep my tears back. "Watson will be here soon, darling, just hold on a little bit longer."

"I'm alright, never been better," Sherlock smiles cheekily. "Wait, darling?" I turn away, swallowing hard and his face becomes serious again. "Irene. I know that this might be far from the perfect moment to bring back old memories, but remember the day in The Grand when you poisoned me with wine and then handcuffed me to the bed fully naked?"

"I'm not sure why this is so important, but how could I forget?"

"What exactly did you say to me that day, before all of that happened?" My brain is foggy from everything that had just happened. "You asked me, 'what if we trusted each other?' and I brushed the question away, but that doesn't mean I didn't consider it. I'm asking you that now." He smiles a little. "Let's run away together, get out of this place."

I smile back at him and then brush my hand against his hair. "I'd love that."

"Holmes? Irene?" John's whisper is unmistakable; I raise my hand and signal him over.

"Take your time," He mutters into my knee. "Take your time." But he does not take his time. He sprints over to us the second he sees the injuries. With a swift movement and no opportunity for arguments, John pulled the hook straight from Sherlock's skin. It slides out after a few seconds and he groans from either relief or pain. His head falls back onto my lap as my shaking fingers stroke through his hair.

"Always good to see you, Watson," he says through a sigh and I say the same with my eyes. He smiles sadly at me and then turns to our wounded hero.

"Can you walk?"

Sherlock lifts his brows. His eyes dance from John, to me, and then back again. "I think… It might be best if we… Well, if I only had… No. No, I cannot walk alone."

John gives him a curt nod. "That's what I expected. You'll have us to lean onto. Simza and the others will be waiting, but we have to leave here before anyone comes for us." His eyes dart around. I know who he is looking for. Moriarty. "We have to leave here now."

We haul Sherlock up, slowly but surely fast enough to get us away in time and head away from the scene and my eyes land upon the scattered blocks that buried our three enemies, I can't help but smile.

Luckily, the rest of the factory is as silent as the grave; we make our way unnoticed down a flight of metal stairs, our feet clanking loudly with the sound of urgency.

"What were you thinking?" John's arms are growing weary from hoisting Sherlock and it shows through the gruff question. His tight face, suddenly expressing irritation, also seems unrecognizable.

"Wait!" Sherlock grunts in response, pulling himself away. His bloodied hands tear a blanket from a nearby crate, displaying a wide array of weapons. None of them look familiar to me and I keep my distance. It doesn't take long for the men to stuff some down their pockets, however. "If you must know, I was thinking I had him right where I wanted him."

Sherlock cocks a gun and secures it in his bloodstained jacket. His arm stretches out towards me with another wince, a shiny new gun waiting for the warmth of my hands. He presses the gun closer towards my palms, but I am too fast. I backed away in hesitation. "I… I can't take it.' I'm so tired of all of this injury. I hate having to watch you be in pain. I hate seeing you feel this way. More than anything, I just want it to end."

"Then take the gun." He offers a light smile. "Use it to protect me from any more wounds."

"Right!" John nods in agreement. "Crack on then!" There is something far greater than my handgun concealed beneath his arm; a huge gun accessorized his side with golden metal as glowing as his wife's hair. He rushes towards the exit, not a moment's hesitation in his steps.

"Simza and the others will be waiting for us," I say as the smoke parts. Sure enough, when we finally pull open the door, a high-pitched whistle greeted us. Simza flags us down from a room possessing even bigger guns.

"Irene, go with Simza." Sherlock orders, shoving me along forwardly. I open my mouth to complain. "John and I will be together," he reassures me. "We'll be safe, but we can't protect you as well. She, on the other hand, can do a very nice job of getting rid of people that need… Well, gotten rid of."

His eyes were sparkling the way they used to. Adventure was calling out to him and he was taking it with his bloodied hands wide open. Somehow it made me love him even more. I manage a quick smile and before I know it, I am locking arms with my gypsy friend.

"So lovely to see you again, Simza."

She winks playfully. "Let's hope you can say that in the future." A laugh trickled up from her throat.

We suddenly rush behind loading carts, and though I feel safe, none of that matters once the sound of bullets whizz through the air. Bullet after bullet is targeted in our direction with ruthless revenge.

I can feel blood dripping down a corner of my head and at the next moment, I feel Simza's hands holding my face tightly. She wipes the trail of blood off with her bare hands. "Are you okay?" She whispers beneath the whooshing of bullets.

"I will be once we get out of here."

It's then that I notice Sherlock and John catching up to our side. The other gypsies are not far behind, and as we all run out into the daylight and away from the warmth of the boiling poisons, Simza has only one thing on her mind. "Did you see my brother?" The pounding of our feet against gravel nearly covers her shrill voice.

"No," Sherlock says firmly. "But I'm certain he's been here."

"Where are we going?" John asks.

"Over that wall!" Simza shouts.

John limps weakly behind us, the anger never once leaving his tone. "Holmes, how did you know I would find you?"

"Find me? You collapsed a building on me!"

"Would both of you just stop acting like children for once in your lives?"

Someone fell behind us. He is one of our men, but now his mind has been handed over to a rounded piece of metal. He has been shot by one of the twins, but he had managed to snag one of their lives before his own. He died honorably, but we could not go back for him.

Sherlock and John are both firing shots at them like lunatics and none of us speak once we reach the edge of the woods, but stop once we run into a red brick wall blocking our escape. More shots are fired as we attempted to haul ourselves over the edge, which obviously makes us rethink our options.

We duck behind another transportation crate and Sherlock pulls me close. Once again, the stench of blood swims towards my nose.

For a moment the bullets stop and Sherlock turned around in confusion, staring up at the hundreds of little holes forever embedded into the wood of the box. But the quiet doesn't last long.

A bang erupts before us as a cannon bullet sends the wall down completely. Furious shouts in a language I did not understand, I assume it's German, ring out behind us.

John and Sherlock helps me up from the rocky ground. I can see into the forest through the broken wall. Simza kicks her feet behind her in a sprint so fast that she is gone from my sight in seconds. Her black hair turns into a raven amongst the trees, her orange skirt matching the rising sun.

I turn to Sherlock. He is running faster than I had ever seen him. One hand is clasped desperately to his wound, the fear planted on his face is enough to turn my admiration into concern, but it does not alter.

"Where are the horses?" John screams as we run in zig zags around the trees.

Simza briefly turns her head, but keeps her pace up. "They're behind!"

"We need them!"

"Do you want to go back?!"

Sherlock searches the dense forest for any other kind of escape route. I can't think of anything that would be in the middle of the woods, "What's our way out?" Sherlock screams to our leader.

"That's our way out!" Simza points up ahead. Sure enough, a train is coming at full speed about a mile ahead of us. We can make it if we ran fast enough.

The horrible noise of guns starts to play out behind us. This time, it isn't from the base of the wall or even behind a crate. It is straight at our backs. Without letting loose a scream, I watch as a bullet barely grazes my ear. Sherlock saw it too and quickly pushes me in front of him.

Running fast is my form of revenge. I will not let the Germans have their way. But this time, running is not an act of cowardice, because we aren't just running for our own lives, but for the lives of others. And the lives of others matter more than anything else.

Huge bombs rain down upon us and a scream erupts my throat as something scrapes the side of my head and I can feel the blood spilling out from my body. My eyesight is going blurry, and I can't to find my balance. "Irene!" John shouts as he takes my hand in his own. "Hang on just a bit longer!"

My head turns curiously, and avoiding the pain, I manage to catch a glimpse of my hunter.

"Moran."

The whispered tone of my voice was not from fear. It was from hatred. If John hadn't been holding my hand, I would have changed my direction and charged straight for him.

I frantically try to pull my hand away and John looks at me in horror, but he quickly let me loose and I spin around;

I stop running in the woods for only a second and take my aim with alertness and fortitude. He isn't fast enough as I pull back the trigger and then sprint for my life. Whether or not I had shot him is beyond my comprehension. There isn't time to wait and check up on him, but just the thought of it makes an uncharacteristic feeling of triumph rise in me.

Just when you think it's all over.

Another shockwave. Another bomb blast. This time, fire roars up all around us, the heat of it mixing unpleasantly with the snow dripping from the sky. It ripples the Earth beneath us, sending us all flying into the air. None of us seem severely hurt as we land in a deep patch of weeds.

In fact, the blast had tossed us so far that we are daringly close to our destination. I sit up slowly, wincing as the pain in my head becomes almost unbearable and glance over at the others, but they are all as still as the grave. "Sherlock!" My quivering hands grab his shoulders to shake the life back into him. "Sherlock, they're coming!"

That seemed to do the trick. A large gasp of air is blessed upon him, and without a word, he slaps his two partners back into consciousness.

As we start running once again with our lack of breath actually noticeable this time, Sherlock holds onto me for support. The wound is raining blood all down his body. There is a waterfall of red across his side. "Hold on, love, we're almost there. Just a little bit longer." I say, breathlessly, but nothing can stop me now.

The sound of black leather boots joins the rushing of our muddied, brown ones and the Germans turn the spears of their guns on us without any hesitation. Simza is the first to be sent to the ground with a furious shove, but John and Sherlock have a better handle on things. Sherlock needs no weapon to take down the two men around him. He is not in the mood to play games. A man shoves a gun in his direction, but he catches it quickly beneath his arm. With a quick switch of the bullet and a steady pass onto John, who begins to take his aim towards the top of the hill where the leader of the pack awaits.

My gun aims straight towards the ragged army 'hero' and shoots him deeply in the… Well, I once again wasn't sure where I shot him, but he falls and that was all that matters to me.

"Irene?" John asked in surprise, chucking the large gun to the ground. "Where did that come from?"

A whistle puts all of our thoughts on hold. The train's pace is slow, but with our damaged bodies, we have to take it. If we don't, we will be stuck on the outskirts of Württemberg for the rest of our very short-lived lives.

Reaching the bottom isn't a problem. It is catching up to the train and trying to climb aboard that is the issue. Simza hops on easily and I can detect that her life is constantly on the move and this is nothing to her.

John hauls me inside of the dark crate and Simza brings me further inside away from the edge, and then he and Sherlock have both gotten inside as well. Tamas finally gets in as well, but just as the last member of our party is struggling to get on, one last battle was made. A bullet is fired straight into the man's back as he clasped onto the edge and he falls onto the snow-covered ground.

"Marko! Marko!" I hear Tamas shout behind a sea of tears. The sound is more heartbreaking than the bullet that captured his friend's life, and with blurry eyes, he turns back to us. "Non, non, non…" He keeps mumbling to himself as he crashes to the floor beside me; reaching across him, I grab the gun from my pocket and then toss it to the ground, shrieking in pure anger and hatred.

Everyone watches me, but I don't acknowledge them, and a moment of compassion awakes in me and I rise up on my knees, trying to comfort Tamas.

As the train continues it's path, there is nothing left for us to look at but the snow in the valleys as they soon come whirling into our line of vision.


	15. Chapter 15

The train's movements are peaceful and smooth, despite the breaking of my heart and the chaos going on inside a tiny train compartment headed heaven only knows where. I am not sure where we're going, nor do I care, all I do care about right now is the safety and health of my friends, the friends I never thought I'd have and who I wouldn't trade for the world. Snowfall graces us with a performance through the open doors and I can see the mountains in the far distance, the peaks almost reaching the sky.

We've been riding for almost half an hour and most of us have recovered from the events of this afternoon; Sherlock finally turns around, his composure weakens. The stiffness in his shoulders diminishes and his eyes begin to sparkle from the dimming daylight. For a moment, I am worried that he will tumble to the floor; his knees are as weak as butter. "Irene-" He starts to speak as his body leans forward.

I make a mad dash and am barely able to reach him, my arms stopping his fall. His eyelashes flicker them against my neck. Eventually they stop; his eyes are shut. "Sherlock," I whisper, placing a warm hand on his head. "What have you done to yourself?"

Simza quickly moves her knees beneath him, offering him a makeshift pillow as he releases short gasps for air. "John, quickly!" She whispers with a terrified expression. "What are we supposed to do?" Blood rushes out from his shoulder, his neck, his face. Everywhere. There was blood everywhere. "Il est mourant…"

_He's dying._

"Keep him still," John urges. I thank the good Lord above that John is alive and functioning. He can fix Sherlock this time around as he has on so many other occasions. "Hold something over the wound so the blood stops spilling from him. It'll give me a minute to think."

Spilling from him. Spilling. Like a broken cup of tea dropped from an unexpected knock on the door.

"Yes, of course." Simza's voice is flushed and I ease my way over to where Sherlock is laying with his head resting on her lap and tearing a piece of fabric from the skirt and apologizing for it, I place it over the open wound and it soaks the cloth in seconds with a dreadful crimson stain.

His eyes roll backwards in his head before sorting themselves back to normal. It doesn't take him long to find me with his bloodshot eyes. He is like a deer caught in the late hours of the wood. Startled and afraid.

"Hold on," I say to him over and over again, as if saying this will help to ease his suffering, but suddenly, a sputtering sound arose from my love's cracked lips.

"Irene, stop! He's choking!"

As the blood trickles from his open chest, I can feel the same thing on my forehead and I remembered that I'd been grazed twice on the same side, though it didn't take as long for the blood to dry.

Tamas' brows come together in his forehead. His fingers gently push the hair away from Sherlock's forehead. He has just lost his dearest friend besides Simza, and I can only imagine what he must be going through right now. Though he wants to break down, he decides to be strong; with that same courageous spirit as the woman next to him, I can testify that all the things people presume about people like them are wrong. For one second he glances in my direction and I do the same, communicating in a secret language that people could only understand as sympathy and empathy, for a man who offered me his food, horses, and shelter, and had only just lost his closest friend.

Before this, there was no gentle heart beating inside me. I was too fixated on my own survival, trying to live one more day and therefore, no one else mattered. None of those men I took advantage of mattered, even though most of them were decent people, none of the people that Moriarty, who I have no doubt was an incarnation of the Devil himself, sent me to rid the world of mattered. And at one point, not even Sherlock Holmes mattered more than my own worthless self.

Even though all of that changed recently and for once I'm out here trying to save the world and not destroy it, I am by no means an angel and I hate to think of myself as such; after all, how many angels do you know who have wanted and still want to kill someone? To see them torn to shreds and left for dead? Or to see them suspended in midair while I smile maniacally at their torture? And by their, I mean the both of them; him and his loyal minion.

No, that doesn't sound very angelic, does it?

Watching the only man I've ever loved, who somehow managed to show me that I am worthy, crumble to pieces before my eyes, hurts more than anything I've ever felt in my life. His hair is flat and unparted, spraying out in every direction; his clothes are stained with sweat, snow and blood, the scent is repulsive, but I stay with him nonetheless.

Simza's lips part while her hands find Sherlock's hair. Her voice sets free a song in Romani, the lyrics hauntingly beautiful but hauntingly tragic. It is a song to keep him safe. It is a song to keep him alive and all is quiet except for her gentle voice, like a whisper in the wind.

When she sings, it almost breaks my heart even more; I feel inclined - more like compelled, that's definitely the word I would use to describe something so enchanting. She pets the top of his head as if he's a wounded or sick dog about to take his last breath. He's so weak, can barely keep his eyes open long enough to be able to look at John who has started fixing his legs.

His eyes close, I see the light fading from them. Suddenly, she stops singing.

"He's not breathing," she says after she placed her hand over Sherlock's nose. John turns to her as soon as the words come out of her mouth and halts in his repairing of the leg. He runs over to him and checks for a pulse, but doesn't feel one.

"Cradle his head," he tells Simza then he looks over to Tamas, "Raise his legs. You are not going to die on us." He starts to push down on Sherlock's chest but he doesn't move. He huffs. "I'm not gonna make this easy on you." I slowly kneel on the other side and watch the doctor push down on his chest some more.

"Come on!" he whisper-shouts as continues his efforts; I can barely see through the mist of tears that are stinging my eyes. "I know you can hear me, you selfish bastard!" His voice cracks and as he slams his fist, hard, over and over. Simza pulls him away, but he fights against her, struggling as he tries to cling onto his best friend. He lets out a small sob and sniffs. Tamas puts a steady hand on John's shoulder.

Trapped. No way out. I search for something, anything, a crevice, a seal, but the walls are a shiny surface with no clues as to how I ever got in here in the first place. There is a door, but the train is moving too quickly for me to be able to jump down safely. My prison is a perfect cube, the corners just reachable if I extend my arms like a starfish. My breathing is steady, my mind still focused. If there was a way in there is a way out, it's just a matter of thinking clearly until I find it.

The thoughts are accelerating inside my head. I want them to slow so I can breathe but they won't. My breaths come in gasps and I feel like I will black out. My heart is hammering inside my chest like it belongs to a rabbit running for its skin.

_He needs me...I want to hold his hand….he mustn't die alone… he's hurt...the train is moving too fast... he's bleeding out...I can't breathe, I can't walk...I must...Sherlock..._

The room spins and I squat on the floor, trying to make everything slow to something my brain and body can cope with. I feel so sick.

_He's gone, he went, breathe, gone, too far away... blackness... creeping blackness…breathe….help! I'm scared!_

I'm on the floor in a ball- the foetal position.

The room is spinning.

_What's my name?...blackness...he's gone…fish hook... war...fire…. screaming...death... someone help me!_

"Irene!" Someone's voice comes into focus and my eyes snap again. "It's me, Simza. It's alright, breathe... I'm here." She goes to put his hands on my shoulders, but hesitates. "Is this alright?" I nod and she proceeds to hold me. Just like with Sherlock, I feel safe with her.

I turn to look out the window, still open in order to release some of the smell out and then take his face in my hands, bending over slowly and bringing my tear-stained face close enough for only the two of us to hear my next words, "You might get the chance to save everyone, but Sherlock Holmes, you have saved me."

It sounds like something out of a fairytale, but I don't have much hope, so I have to resort to complete and utter foolishness, and I don't see any other option; if it worked for Snow White's prince, then why shouldn't it work for me? Instead of the prince saving the princess, the roles are reversed.

Sim watches me and John blinks his teary eyes to look and see what I'm doing. No one questions it, but I can tell they must be thinking things about me, about him, about us, but I don't care.

His mouth is cold against mine; I don't make the kiss last too long, just long enough to fill his lungs with the air from my own, and I release him, a sob building up in my chest.

"Irene…"

The unexpected words take me by surprise and I glance down, seeing a small smile and his brown eyes slowly opening. A new wave of tears comes along, but this time, ones of joy and relief and all at once I'm sobbing, unable to hold it in any longer.

"I had a terrible dream, you were marrying Gladstone and I was in a restaurant, that satanic pony was there as well! A massive fork in his hoof and he turned on me!" My lip curls ever so slightly. "Who's been dancing on my chest?"

"Me," John replies casually.

"Why is my leg so itchy?" Sherlock groans.

"Because you have a large piece of wood sticking out of it," John replies. Sure enough, a splinter the size of my fist is embedded into his leg. My hands reach forward to help him sit down, and he leans on me as I gently push him down on the crate.

"You! Tamas!" Sherlock's shaky finger directs itself towards the weary gypsy. "I have an important job to discuss with you." a crate. "Remind me of it later."

"Sit down," John orders and he sticks out a small vial to Sherlock, possibly medication for the pain, but his eyes can't really seem to focus on just one thing; he blinks a few times before gingerly taking the vial. "Drink this. I need to get that out before it turns septic."

"Leave it in." Sherlock's voice whispers with a shaky tone. Any second now and he would—"Leave it in!" I can hear the sound of skin gashing from across the cabin. There are a few grunts and insults passed between the two, but it only lasts a second before John sets to work on cleaning the wound. He was in the process of doing it before, but now that the patient is conscious, he can do it properly.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to Brighton."

My heart nearly shatters at his words. He almost died and his first thought was of wanting me beside him. His second thought was an apology. There is nothing that could make me love him more than what is happening at this moment. People are wrong about Sherlock Holmes. He has more heart and soul than the best of them.

With a prolonged gaze, John's eyes grow a bit darker with a tear lingering on the edge. "Me too." He tosses the bloodied splinter aside with a long gaze at the floor."I think we should go home."

"I concur. We're going home..." Simza, Tamas, and I look to each other and an audible gasp can be heard from John's lips; neither of us are in good shape, but we didn't come this far, risking everything, just to give up when we're so close. When the villain is barely within our clutches. "… via Switzerland."

Sherlock's face wears a devious smirk and there's a fantasized look behind his closed eyes. I should have known that this was all part of the plan, the great, ineffable plan. "What better place to start a war… then a peace summit? I'll drop in and see my brother. I'm sure he's missed you."

Minutes later when everyone is preoccupied with talking amongst themselves, I can feel his head drop slowly onto mine.

"You know that I could have stopped it." The numbness in his voice is astounding. His heart is shattering to pieces like the glass on the floor. "The bombing back at the hotel, I could have-"

"No. You could not have stopped a bomb. Even if we knew where to go, where would we have put the people? Where would we have placed the weapon? And what's worse, you may have been killed."

He grunts and draws his head up from my shoulder. "Perhaps that would have been the best-"

"Don't ever say that again." My words are more of a threat and even I am surprised at how strong my voice is. "You are always doing your best. None of us would even know where to go if it weren't for you. If you were not here beside us, the world would be in chaos and a war by now. How dreadful and bleak the world would be without Sherlock Holmes?"

He lifts his head a little to look at me, but I don't meet his gaze; the words startled me and maybe even angered me, but I am too tired to feel much right now, I just want to be somewhere safe where we can all properly rest.

"Are you feeling any better?" I whisper.

"Physically, my recovery time might be a few weeks time. Perhaps a couple of months. Psychologically, I think my brain is a bit weary and shocked from the state of things, but that only tends to make my mind sharper and more aware of its surroundings. You should ask Watson to take a look at that gash, it looks terrible."

"I think we're all a little worse for wear, and I've been in worse scrapes than this, so I'll be fine. The blood is practically dry anyway. Once we get to your brother's place, then I can clean up there."

John appears to have heard our conversation, or his name being mentioned, because he turns his head in our direction. "He's right, it should only take five minutes to patch up."

"I'll be alright once I rest my eyes a little, go with Watson."

Reluctantly, I follow John to another corner of the room where he sets out his supplies and then after handing me a vial of medicine, probably the same stuff he gave to Sherlock, he begins to clean the wound before he can begin the stitching; the closest thing we've had to water around here is snow, but it's clean enough and will do for now and I am not sure where he managed to find some bandages or if he's had his medical supplies with him the whole time; either way, I'm thankful.

"I'm sorry about earlier," I say to him apologetically, "I have no control over when I panic and the last thing I want to do is be a burden to the rest of you."

"You're not a burden, Irene, when I was in the army, I used to panic all the time; what if this is my last day? What if we go out there and one of us dies? What if we can't win? And sometimes I still have nightmares about it."

"How did you learn to control it?" I feel the needle go in and the stitching begins.

"It took a long time, but I managed to learn a few techniques to help me; breathing deeply, recognizing the symptoms and trying to picture something that calms me down. It usually helps, but it all depends on the person, I suppose. Next time you're feeling like that, tell me, alright? That way I can help you." He cuts the end of the tread and then ties the ends of the stitching together so the wound is all fixed up. "Does that feel better?"

"Much, thank you, John." I stand up and go back to my previous spot, closing my eyes, if only for a while, assuring myself that all will soon be put right.

* * *

Night trickles over the train, and though the steam continues overhead, the snow is easing up. We think that it's best to leave the door open, should we be heard trying to escape otherwise, and although the gypsy attire is good for many things, it doesn't necessarily keep out the cold, though we manage to find warmth in the corners of the compartment. Sherlock and I are on the left end; I can see the impulse crossing his face every five minutes. An urge to get out and fight, even when he was so close to death moments ago.

I rest my back against the wall, with Sherlock's head still resting on my shoulder and twirling his messy hair in between my fingers - he was taller than me even when sitting, so he had to lean a little. Neither of us have managed to get much sleep, and when we do, we end up waking up again, but right now, it's just the two of us who are still awake.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him, not wanting to disturb the peace and quiet, but I am worried that he may have passed out again, but after a sharp intake of breath, he continues.

"I should have been more keenly attuned to your reactions and your feelings." He sighs heavily, more frustrated with himself than anyone else. "I've been so focused on stopping Moriarty I haven't been able to pay attention to the one person that matters most to me."

"You deserve more than this. More than this cat and mouse chase. More than Switzerland. More than a hook embedded into your chest." It is by far the harshest thing I've ever had to admit, not just to myself, but to anyone. "For some people, it's easy to look away. It's easier to not do anything at all than to put ourselves in the way, but you always manage to do the right thing, to put your own fears aside. And I can only hope to become that brave, that selfless."

"Irene-" He sits up and though it takes him a little more time than usual, he manages to do it.

"I believed you were lost to us; I was scared; I've been scared my whole life, really, running away from danger even though I was the one putting myself into it." There is a long stretch of silence. "And seeing you lying there, lifeless, it made me feel hopeless, that there was nothing left and I was almost tempted to jump from that train." I stop abruptly, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be unloading all of my baggage on you when you've got enough to worry about. Forget I said anything at all."

"I know," Sherlock sighs. "I never wanted you to see Moriarty torturing me; I should have let you stay with Simza, that way he wouldn't have had a chance to harm you; and that would have hurt far worse than having that hook embedded in my chest."

"I would have never allowed you to suffer through that on your own although it was killing me inside to see you like that. Do you think I stayed because you asked me to? You know that I can make my own choices and as you said before, I can't be controlled, but that's not why, either. I came with you because..." The air becomes thinner, either because we are getting close to the mountains or for one other reason, "..because I love you."

His eyes flicker to meet my own. A glimpse of the silver moonlight trickles through a crack in the train, dancing across his tired face. And though he is stained, bruised and battered, his expression reaches a point of beauty so astounding that I nearly weep from its impact. He doesn't say anything and I'm starting to wonder if I'd made a mistake, I start making up excuses in my head.

_That's not what I meant._

_Sorry, it just slipped out._

_I didn't mean it in that way, I meant it as in I care for you._

But neither of those are true. The shame and fear building inside of me is turning to one of frustration, and then the frustration becomes something else entirely. I know deep down that with every fibre of my being that I want to be with Sherlock, not just at this particular moment, but for the rest of my life, no matter how long or short that time might be; what I'm worried about is whether or not he feels the same way.

"I've loved you since the day we met, and that too made me scared. The time we were trying to stop Lord Blackwood after he rose from the dead, Moriarty sent me to manipulate my feelings for you in order to get you to chase after me so that he could steal a piece of the machinery, and of course it worked. But like the fool I am I succumbed to them." He was so quiet that I continued. "I was scared because he threatened to kill you and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you to that monster."

With a grunt and a scooting of his body, he moves over on the wooden crate with enough space beside him for another person. My eyes graze to the other side of the room, where my three companions lay deep in their sleep. I move towards him in the darkness. His body is overly warm as I press up beside him and take his hands carefully in my own. They are as white as a dove's wings, though hardly as soft and gentle.

He watches carefully as I dance over each knuckle and bruise, making sure to be as gentle as I would his heart. He has to know how much I loved him. How much I yearn for him. And now, in new ways that are shameful, the funny part is, my mind has always been polluted with these sorts of thoughts. To him, I must look like a foolish girl in love, but seeing how his eyes dance across my face, I can say that love is his biggest weakness.

And there is something else I wish to get off my chest while I can. "Don't worry, I'm well aware about your views and opinions on marriage and I'm not saying that we should, seeing as how it is a thing that two persons do when they have little else to preoccupy themselves. And perhaps for monetary reasons."

"Oh," he says slowly and unexpectedly, and with a hint of relief. Despite my little interest in the actual convention of marriage, "Well, you're right about that. I don't think I should get married. Not for me."

Though it does make me a bit gloomy to see his fear at such a romantic notion, laughter is the only thing I can manage to thrust at him. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm only joking, trying to lighten the mood as it will."

With a snort of disgust, he tugs the flaps of his shirt down, as if securing his manliness via his threadbare clothing. "Don't think that it's anything personal, you know that if I did end up marrying you, it would just put you more at risk; they could break into our home when I'm not there and they could use you as a weapon against me."

"And what gave you the idea that I would be sitting around at home with our patterned tablecloths, China figurines and lace doilies while you're gallivanting across London solving crimes all by yourself?" I ask, raising a brow. "Let's get one thing straight here, hypothetically speaking, I'm not going to be the perfect little housewife, cooking and cleaning and catering. I'll be going with you."

"I've never pictured you as the perfect domesticated woman, which is why I've been considering having you as a partner." He hesitates. "I know that it's the last thing you want considering the current circumstances, but since Watson will be living a comfortable-"

"Of course, I'd love to. Though don't think that I'm going to withhold my affections for you once we've completed a case."

"I'll look forward to it."

Everything is quiet for several minutes and we both get the chance to calm down.

"I love you, too.." He does not sound like himself; his eyes crack open. They are darker than I had remembered. Whether it was an illusion of light, or a strange change in character, I do not know. There are no more words left to say, or at least it seems that way. Without any hesitation, I bring my lips to his, this is not like the other kisses I've shared with the others, it is shy, not passionate in the least - the others are asleep nearby and if John or Simza happen to catch us in the act, we will never hear the end of it - but that doesn't mean it's any less valuable.

His breath is shaky as he kisses me back with equal uncertainty, his lips moving desperately over my own. Gently, he pulls my head closer towards his, our lips meeting in the most eloquent of silences.

His kiss is not at all the same as those characters in the novels I've read, but one steeped in a passion that ignites. It is the promise of realness, of the primal desire that lives in us all.

And I know I love him. I love him so fiercely at this moment, and it isn't because he needs me. And it isn't because I was there to comfort him. It is because he has temporarily forgiven himself. He is a good and honest man that will undoubtedly make up for the lost lives in the near future.

"We can continue this later," he whispers into my ear, his lips warm on my skin. His hot breath makes my head spin as a shiver goes rushing from my chest and when I finally gaze upon him, a toothy smirk cracks across his face, seemingly ravishing my current state. It is unlike him: daring and exciting but in an entirely new way. Romantic. Passionate. Desirous. This is not the Sherlock Holmes I knew.

All I want right now, is to be somewhere secluded and safe. For him to run his hands up my bare arms, not slow but fast. To let them cover my skin with soft lips following. To be in his arms is love, safety, and passion too. It is how he brings me back to life, revives what was lost, restore what was shattered.

We are born to be loved, to be cherished for who we are, unconditionally. So though his words are precious, his laughter a remedy, it is the feel of his body next to mine that heals all wounds. Or perhaps it is all of them combined, perhaps they are more than their sum. There have always been ups and downs, times of closeness that sear us forever into each other's souls and times of distance, of near isolation. Yet we always found a way back to each other, but now there's little chance of us separating.

A long silence fills the room before his voice graces me. "Somewhere more private and somewhere warmer, but for now, you should try and sleep." His fingers find their way in mine, trailing over every knuckle, touching every piece of flesh he can find. This small, tender action is the sweetness of passion, a million loving thoughts condensed into a moment.

He does not seem excited with this notion. My voice is weak as my eyelids flicker shut. My lips trail over his dirty cheek, and press against his ear to send a quiet message. "You mean _we_ should try and get some sleep. You look exhausted, too." I feel his head nod and as I stand, he reaches out his hand to grab mine.

"Only if you stay with me… I-I need you." I am not sure what he means by those four words. Does he need me at this moment? Does he need me forever? Does he need me for something literal? Or does he simply need me? My arms find their way around him. "I have needed you my entire life. I just never knew it until I met you."

The words send my heart racing as I process the words. Feelings are not just finding their way in my heart or my head, but everywhere. I feel it in places where it almost seems like pain. His effect over me is like a tidal wave, a swirling wind, a volcano. It is too hard to control. It just comes and bursts and sends shivers across my entire body.

Sherlock wraps his arms around me in a moment and I let my head rest upon his chest. All my thoughts stop as if my heart takes over from my head when we are close. Next he gently squeezes as if he needs to check I am really there with him, really there and really real... and I am, body and soul.

I doubt anyone else has ever felt the way I do about being in his arms, though I pity them if they did love this much and lost, because that's a pain that kills soft and slow.

In that moment my insecurity comes back for another bite and so I turn to Sherlock, "Is everything alright, really?"

He turns with that serious look that still has his trademark warm eyes, "So long as you're by my side, sweet angel, the rest of the world will soon fall into place." And that's just what I need to hear, that he's mine for now and into the future... that there will be a future... one I can survive.


	16. Chapter 16

_We walk side by side, looking out onto the Thames as the sun begins to trickle out of sight. The warm spring air carries with it, the smells of flowers and bits of pollen from the trees, this is why Spring is my favourite time of year, it gives us a chance to start over again, to be reborn, to let the past die, keeping only the best and most treasured memories._

_There is hope in the spring day, hope in the new green growth that flourishes upon the earth. I feel the warmth in the breeze that wasn't there a few days ago. I sense that the days are becoming lighter and brighter. And then there is the bud upon the optimistic branch, brave enough to bring forth such delicate leaves and open them into the sunshine._

_The birds fly through that ever developing canvas of the dawn, as if their wings are fine quills, drawing such buoyant hues. Those wings in that sky become the colours of my dreams and whenever I need a memory to lift me off the ground, they are there._

_"I'm proud of you, you know. You know that Mary will take good care of him and keep him out of trouble, and it's not as if we're never going to see each other again, he is going to come and visit. Until then, you have me as a companion."_

_Sherlock cracks a smile, but this is not one of happiness, but of sadness. He is not yet used to living a life without John and I am not either. He is having a hard time adjusting._

_"And that makes me the luckiest man alive." He doesn't need to say anymore. His words are genuine. "You could have returned to the opera stage, back to winning the hearts of your audience, so why didn't you?" Sherlock eyes me down. There is no point in hiding._

_"I have considered it from time to time, performing gave me a purpose, it gave people something to smile about, it helped them to believe that there was still light in the darkness." The lamplighter begins to make his rounds across the bridge. "But the main reason is because I don't need to go around stealing hearts anymore."_

_There is a long pause, we walk a majority of the time in silence, letting the trickling water in the river be the only sound. It is soft, wending its way between the banks that are the new vivid green only the springtime can bring. In the post dawn light the water doesn't sparkle like it does at noon, instead it is mellow like a Monet painting._

_The blossoms arrive like cake frosting on the trees in delicious creams and pinks. The petals burst out from lower down the branches leaving the tips still in tight bud. After the denuded trees of winter their new and splendid clothes are a joy to see. I want a step ladder to get close enough for their new-season aroma. Though the calendar says it is winter for a few weeks yet, the trees tell me it is spring. In a few more weeks those petals, those perfect silky hearts, will flutter down as gentle rain. Just watching them tumble will bring back memories of weddings, my own included. Fun times, beautiful times..._

_"Love was never on my side, even when I had fallen in love for someone, when real, genuine feelings had been developed, nothing worked out. And when I started falling for you, I was scared. Scared that I wasn't worthy, or that you would scam me just like some had done to me and what I'd done to others. I felt as if I was cursed."_

_"Oh, don't think like that, darling," he smiles. "Just remember a few things. The women are as beautiful as they say, and the men as devious, and sometimes it's the other way around, but that doesn't mean that there aren't good people in the world."_

_I sigh as I stare up at the sun slowly making its descent. It's so beautiful that I can't even put it into words. We just stand together, enjoying the warm weather, the sun shines just to the left, framing him in a hazy vignette. My head leans more and more onto his shoulder and I feel my eyelashes fluttering shut and the breeze on my cheek, nothing is as magical as this moment, just the two of us, letting the world around us dissolve as if we are in our own little place in the universe._

* * *

When the train finally stops, my whole body stops with it. My eyes snap open and I realize that all the things I just saw were dreams. Every muscle in me is past being sore. I was numb, and though Sherlock's health has improved a little since last night, he is still in pretty rough shape. Mycroft will know what to do. And if he won't, he'll be able to find someone who does.

The whistle sounding from up ahead nearly deafens me and I have to cover my ears. Not only does it go off once, but twice and it's so loud and irritating to my sensitive ears that it makes me want to go up there and rip that thing right off its hinges.

A couple of men are touring the crates while gathering supplies to ship into the cities, that's how I know that we have arrived. At the first sound of their boots, Simza awakes from her sleep with alertness and energy; that woman has the eyes of a hawk and ears as sharp as anything, so I would be surprised if she managed to sleep through it.

"We need to move now or they'll find us!" Her scarred hands shove Tamas awake. John and Sherlock bolt up in alarm at the sound of commotion. I know very well that she isn't going to wait around for the likes of us. She has a brother in need of saving. With a quick hop from the edge of the cart, she disappears from my view; Tamas follows her and that leaves the three of us. The Three Musketeers.

"Come on, gentlemen." I try my hardest to have my gritted teeth sound like motivation rather than excruciating pain twisting my insides. "We should probably remove ourselves from this situation if we don't want to spend the night in a prison."

With a groan and a sputter of what sounds like blood and dust, Sherlock is back on his feet again and ready for whatever comes his way. "Gypsies hop aboard trains quite frequently; Hoping off them isn't enough to send one to prison."

"No, but we are a rabble from London with blood on our hands, as well as everywhere else, so I think we'd better get moving, lest we lose track of our guides."

Our wounds will be patched up and then we can get back to business. The thought of a bath doesn't sound so bad either. I can't remember the last time I had a nice, long soak in a tub. This will be good for all of us.

His skin is as pale as the snow sweeping the ground. Watching him wobble to his feet, I gathered how weak and weary he really is. There is minor limping as he hops from the train, but judging by his quick pace, he is either starving or on the verge of growing determination. It turns out that Tamas and Simza haven't gone far, but I can see the eagerness in her eyes to keep moving.

"We'll get to my brother's house and grab some dinner." Well that answers my previous question. He continues as I chuckle silently behind him. John has managed to catch up wearily, though he seems to be the healthiest of all of us. "Once we've managed to catch up with our lack of energy, we'll have to start thinking of the peace summit."

"We won't get a night's rest first?" John asks through a heavy sigh. A bed is the sweetest thought to John Watson right at this moment: more than his beloved Gladstone and more than his precious Mary. Oh, no. A bed will be just the thing to cure his aching heart.

We stop walking as we approach the edge of the forest and a look of hesitation crosses his face. His eyes look down at me. It is not often that you see Sherlock Holmes scared. He faces things head on, with a brave face, always keeps his pain hidden from the rest of the world, but behind the tough exterior, there is a vulnerability, a crack in the glass that will soon break it completely.

"If things go as planned, we'll go home and pretend this never happened." My own eyes find his and we silently encourage each other to keep moving. That we are in this together. He seems to get the message and with the mask back on, he continues onwards through the woods, two wandering souls traveling into the unknown.

Mycroft does not live too far from the station. It is quite a trek through the snow, the second longest time we've ever gone anywhere on foot but that was about the only burden we encountered. The winter landscape is part of what makes us so strong, looking to the ever-present sun even when our earth is icy and here among the evergreens in this kingdom of root and branch, there is the tranquility of nature and a sense of natural clocks at peace with time.

A few of the local wildlife followed us at a distance, mostly deer. I've never seen deer before, and as soon as I see them, I feel like I'm a child again. The deer glances with such sweet and gentle eyes that an epiphany or sorts occurs, this must be why we call each other "dear." For in that moment of dark soulful eyes is a form of natural, vulnerable honesty we aspire to.

I want to chase them, I want to go up close, but they appear wary of us so I choose not to interfere. I keep my coat wrapped tightly around myself with my eyes fixated on my footprints.

"These woods are beautiful," Simza says ahead of us. "So quiet and peaceful."

John nods in agreement as he comes up to walk beside me. "How could a man plan such a horrible thing in a place like this?"

"He is not a man," Sherlock scoffs. "Il est le diable." His back is hunched and his eyes move in every which way. Normally, I can guess what was on his mind. Not anymore.

John sighs and rubs his forehead tiredly. His eyes are also fixated on the detective with concern lacing his pupils. "I fear he'll go mad. I fear he's already starting to."

"People always say Sherlock Holmes _is_ mad." I reply, huffing as I lift my feet out of a massive snowbank.

"But he isn't, is he?" John growls. "People who put their lives on the line to save humanity are far from madness. And he happens to be a genius. A bloody genius who tries too hard to make things right.." He takes a breath and glances down at the snow, trying to compose himself. It's not as if I haven't seen John angry before, but he always tries to stay composed and to not become undone; I want to tell him that it's alright for him to show his emotions, that he doesn't have to be a soldier all the time, he's allowed to be a regular person, too.

His devotion toward his most treasured and closest friend is admirable. They have always balanced each other out perfectly, yin and yang, day and night. Sherlock is a genius, yes, but John is incredibly smart and just as adventurous.

The life of a doctor was what he had planned when he'd made the life-changing decision to go home to London after serving in the war, but it might not have been what he yearned for.

Then again, I never imagined that I would have been a thief or a criminal, either. Maybe since we have plenty of time on our hands, I will tell you about one of my adventures, which happened to take place in the Cyclades long ago.

* * *

A man in his late thirties, perhaps early forties sat in front of a large, mahogany desk with his hands folded neatly before him. A much younger man sat directly in his unwelcoming line of vision. The older man's expression was one of power, and his oceanic eyes were unwavering. His stare no doubt made the younger man nervous, despite the sparkling summer day creeping through the windows.

Neither were interested in the weather.

The older man was only interested in the boy that sat before him, and he made his vehemence known through his watchful eyes. I knew better than to eavesdrop on their conversation, but I listened in anyway.

"No," the older man replied to whatever the other man had said. His short body leaned forward; an act no doubt meant to be threatening. "You have my way. I hired you. I own you, and you do as I order."

"And I did," the youth replied. "You wanted three. I gave you three."

"Yes, but I didn't need your method." Spit flew from the man's mouth as his voice consumed the tall room. "Your flair; your show… it's unimpressive. It's like leaving a signature on a murder case." The boy couldn't stop his grin from expanding. He knew better, even I who hadn't murdered anyone knew better, or maybe he was trying to prove something. The boy wanted his name to be known. He would continue to leave his mark on the murders and there was nothing anyone was going to do to stop him. He viewed his boss as daft, old swine that was too afraid to do his own work. At least, that's what he thought. Little did he know how wrong he was. The plump, bearded man would soon terrorize him. He would find that out soon enough.

"Get out of my office." The boss's tone was practically a purr of sweetness, though they both knew the displeasure lingering behind it. "And wipe that grin off of your face. You won't need it where you're headed. Ah, there you are Miss Adler, just the person I wanted to see; please, sit."

I did as instructed. He seemed to hold a much higher opinion over me than the men in his service. He opened a drawer and drew a cigar to his chapped lips. "You remember the letter in Barack's office? The one he never delivered to his wife? Explaining the affair?"

"Indeed, sir," I replied. His tone did not frighten me as much as it did the man who was just in here. "You wish for me to retrieve it?"

"You are a smart girl," he said, a suggestive look in his eyes. "You know what to do; go in, find the letter and then go out again. I shall send someone to retrieve it and bring it back to me; report back and you shall be rewarded generously."

The next minute, I was standing in front of a red door. The second I opened it, they would take me to the office of a dead man. Not only that, but the room was practically his grave. I shut my eyes and shook my head as a warning to myself.

With a gulp, I blinked, adjusting to the dim light. The red door suddenly wasn't making me feel any better and I quickly opened the door and rushed inside.

My forehead was suddenly hot and I was worried that my head was catching fire. I could feel sweat dripping down my back. Without a second thought, I rushed down the hallway until I was safely hidden out of sight.

Knowing that it would blow my cover, in an act of defiance, I ripped the hat from my head and searched my pockets for a handkerchief. There was none and I was doomed to restore the hat. I didn't care if I looked like a boy anymore or not. I just wanted out of there. I just wanted this mission to be over and to be back at my hotel relaxing.

Sure enough, the man's office was down the left hallway. I only knew because of the writing on the door; it read his name, Barak. I pressed my ear against the door, as if there was any sign of life behind it. There was no noise anywhere, let alone in the office.

But my sense of smell was definitely working. The unsuitable scent of lavender hit me as I cracked open the door. My hand batted the smell away from my nose.

The room was elegant though nearly empty; soft green carpet danced up around my feet, pulling me inside.

Normally, I would have tiptoed my way about the room, but this time was urgent. Just by standing there, I could see so many things going wrong.

Nothing on the desk, and all of the drawers empty. All of the book shelves deserted. No markings on the doorway.

The tick of a clock kept mocking me in my defeat. The tick-tocks sounded like a brutal 'give-up give-up give-up'. Father Time was sending me a warning. I couldn't stay for long before people would get curious.

Not sure of what else to do, I rushed over to a glass cabinet full of porcelain and china. I squinted as the sunlight bounced off of the handles and into my eyes. I flipped over the bottom of each vase, hoping to see any sort of peculiar symbol.

Nothing.

But, I couldn't leave empty handed! I was expected to do something, and to do it right. I wasn't going to ruin my chance. My mind scanned every piece of furniture, and wondered where a man might keep such a letter. Or rather, wouldn't keep.

Instantly, I dropped onto my knees and made my way towards the rubbish bin. I began ripping out old papers, until finally I managed to find it.

I couldn't resist a gasp from escaping my lips in relief, and I bit down on them, trying to hold back a triumphant smile. I did it, and without any trouble whatsoever.

"Boró na se voithíso."

I spoke too soon. I shouldn't have counted myself lucky until I was out of there.

My head snapped up as my body remained hunched over the can. I wasn't sure what my appearance was, but the woman standing in the threshold did not look pleased. Pathetically, I stood up, but not before tucking the paper into the back pocket of my trousers. I wanted to apologize in Greek, but the word for 'sorry' escaped my memory. All I could do was slink past her and hope that she wouldn't call the authorities.

"Stop!" My body froze as the woman shouted behind me. She was speaking English. In a few seconds, she was blocking my way down the hallway. Her stare was like a knife in my face. "It's clear that you are not from around here."

"That's very true," My voice was cracking like a young boy, and if she couldn't tell that I was female, she was the daftest person on the planet. "You see, I am a detective, sent to figure out your colleague's murder. Barack is it?"

Of course, this was a big lie. I had been one of the people who worked alongside said murderer, though technically I was only there to retrieve a letter in the man's possession which somehow held great value.

"Yes. He was a dear friend of mine. His wife and daughter went to live in Italy. Of course, I did not know this until it happened. You know, the affair," she said, but her voice did not hold curiosity nor alarm, and she was clearly nervous that I would hurt her, but her nervousness soon turned into annoyance. "Wait, but you are a woman, pretending to be a man. How can I-"

"I suppose that's obvious." I grumbled. "Of course I'm a woman, but this was the best disguise I could come up with. I can't have the enemy finding out that I'm not just a simple customer in need of some new shoes, eh?"

She was not as daft as she appeared, or maybe my disguise wasn't that well thought out. One thing I knew for sure, was that nothing I said was going to make her believe me, which gave her all the more reason to bolt towards the front door.

My heart raced as she called out into the streets in a shrill voice. "Help! Help! There is a thief! A thief!"

Cursing under my breath, I made a dash for it. That didn't make me any less suspicious of thievery; I may have taken a letter, but besides that, there was nothing in the room I would even want to steal.

Before I knew it, two officers were standing at the end of the hallway. My escape was blocked, and I could only think of one other way.

My feet snapped from their place, followed by shouts from the men. I slammed the door shut and shoved a chair beneath the handle. At least that would buy me some time.

Instinct always kicked in at just the right time; my hands gripped the edge of the window as I tried to pull it open. My tiny arms got the better of me, and all I could focus on was the rattling knob behind me.

"No, no, no," I whispered as I tugged at the latch. "Please don't do this right now."

Trying to stay focused, I tugged one last time and to my good fortune, it came free. The next step was to plan the daring jump down. Technically, it wasn't that high, four or five at least, but to my blurring vision, it looked ten feet. I bent my knees, as if I were preparing to leap off the edge of a dock, and threw myself forward, praying that gravity and God were on my side.

A scream escaped my throat as I was suddenly on the ground. There was another one in front of me, and all at once it all came to me.

_Right arm smack ear, while left grabs his right… Or was that his left? Doesn't matter. His knee goes towards the stomach and then the hands… Oh wait, I missed it. Oh. He's finished._

The officers looked out the window, and the neighbours did the same from theirs, hearing the commotion, and I glanced back at them, smirking over my shoulder as the officers continued their pursuit. I could hear the footsteps echoing from the stairs.

My body stiffened in its place, one of the men working for him was at my side. Carefully, I slipped the paper into his pocket. He nodded, slipped a generous amount of money into mine and we parted ways as he continued on his way down the street.

Quickly, I picked a basket worth of olives, since I knew someone who would enjoy them. Then I raced as fast as my legs would carry me into the setting sun.

* * *

"You're right," John nods, his voice taking me away from my wandering thoughts. "If anything, we can't fail this." His anger disappears, twisting into a look of unknowing. He repeats his words with trepidation. "We can't fail this."

I can only imagine the thoughts running through both of their heads. What if we do fail? The world will break out into war. Asia will fight anyone who comes near. America will win if they choose to fight and no matter who comes near them, they will tear them to pieces. Britain might stand a chance against Eastern Europeans, but overall, a magnitude of lives will be lost.

I begin to feel sick. My head is spinning with the image of my dear aunt. She has been alone without my uncle for so long and still she is weak. I am the only relation she has in this world, all she has left. And now she doesn't even have that, I have tossed her aside as if she were nothing, as if she wasn't the one who taught me to sit up properly at the table, who wiped my runny nose, and who comforted me when I had nightmares. I try to focus on the trees. If the air is fresh and the sky is open, why do I feel like I'm suffocating?

"Irene?" Sherlock is watching me intensely, as if he can sense what's coming, "It's alright, just breathe," he whispers. "You're thinking about your aunt, aren't you?"

"How did you…?"

"It isn't hard to pick up on," he begins to mumble. "Your state was weary, therefore allowing an excess of emotions to swell within you while meanwhile destroying your barrier to hide said emotions. Now, though you've gone through many tragedies in your life, none seemed to have quite an effect on you like the death of your uncle and now you are worried that something might happen to her, but if she's any bit as strong as you are-."

"I'm not strong, Sherlock and I'm not brave. I'm scared and it's suffocating me! I used to be fearless, I used to be so many things, but now I'm dangling from the edge of a cliff and I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on."

"I know you're scared," Sherlock knows my fears without my lips ever having to express them. Perhaps that is partially why I love him. "Though we can try to not feel guilty about these situations, I can understand that it is not easy to avoid the emotions that come with them."

A crow squawks, reminding me of the ones that lingered in the London streets.

"I have not been a good man, Irene." He is going back to our conversation on the train. "You may not know this, but you have helped me in so many ways and believe it or not, having you with me makes me want to be a better man. At first, I wanted Moriarty to believe that I was the fish. He had to see me weak, but then it became too much, your tears, seeing you cry pierced through my ice cold heart and all I wanted was to free myself from that hook and wrap my arms around you, tell you that everything was going to be alright."

I watch as he grabs his arm in pain, as if the memory of it triggers a response, the age becoming noticeable on his face with every drop of stamina that flies away from him.

I can sense the growing frustration within him. The last thing he wanted to do was insult me, hurt me, and cause me pain. But he was doing so and it was clearly visible on my wrinkling face. "The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, cause you pain and I'll never forgive myself for that or for anything else I've done to hurt you or others."

"Right, You've never cooked for John, or donated to charity. He have never bothered to give Gladstone a bath, send Mary a wedding gift, or even toss Mrs. Hudson a tip. You are not and never have been good at socializing and you are far too openly critical when you disapprove of something." I am not finished yet.

"You've saved the lives of Londoners many times before I met you. You've solved cases that almost led to the destruction of the British parliament. You've travelled through foul sewers just to put the minds of parents' who lost their loved ones at ease. You've given up everything to chase down a man who was aiming to destroy the world. So no, you are not a good man at all." I look up to meet his sorrowful eyes.

"You forgive me," he breathes out. "Do not fall from me. Stay with me. There is nothing more obvious than the fact that I need you."

I watch his smooth skin become hard and scarred. His cheek is cut forever, and wrinkles dig themselves across his hands and his face. Blackness circles his right eye like a reminder of his inability. His body is becoming weaker. He has changed. I will never have him the way I found him.

I stare at the tears in his eyes; I don't know if they're from the cold or if I have accidentally made him cry.

"Sherlock Holmes, my father always told me not to marry a good man," I tease, "he told me that I was to marry a great man. A strong man. A man with conviction and sense and you might just be that man or maybe you're better than that man."

His hands knot themselves in my hair, pulling our foreheads together with heated breath. After I crack a silent smile, he allows himself that one simple pleasure. The mischievous grin, and our feet start carrying us away.

The love of my life isn't perfect and I'm not either, but we are perfect for one another.


End file.
